Bite-Size Love
by heartbash
Summary: Nathaniel returns from Guatemala after a year sabbatical and has to adjust to all the changes in the West Covina social ecosystem. Rebecca and Nathaniel strike up a platonic friendship, which has its shared of ups and downs. The line between friendship and romance proves to be precarious and confusing, especially with Greg still harboring feelings for Rebecca.
1. You Shine

**Part One: I Have Friends (Reprise)**

**February 14, 2020**

As Rebecca sings the last note of her song, drawing out the last syllable, her eyes drift shut for a moment, savoring it. When she opens them and lifts her hands from the keys, she's met with instant thunderous applause. Valencia and Heather holler words of encouragement. Paula wipes under her eyes, then cups her hands over her mouth to let out a resounding _Wooo_! The walls thrum. The room is alive with excitement.

The lump in Nathaniel's throat, which took shape as soon as Rebecca addressed him in the crowd - her first words to him since they parted ways exactly one year ago - was only exacerbated by her heartfelt performance. When she stands from the bench to accept her applause, her eyes fill with tears at the enthusiastic reaction and he feels the tightness spread to his chest.

The cheering continues as she scans the room and her eyes flicker to Nathaniel when he rises from his seat. _Your first standing ovation_ he mouths to her and, though he doesn't know if she can make out his words in the darkness, she smiles back as if she does. Others join him and stand, and he muses that this certainly won't be her last - standing ovation, that is - if this room of proud, beaming faces is any indication. She's radiating pride in a way he's never seen before and suddenly all the pain and struggle in their past seems worth it - more than worth it - if it somehow lead to this moment.

The host of the open mic reappears on stage and he unsheathes the microphone from its stand, breaking the spell. "Uh…" he begins, surveying the crowd with his eyebrows crossed, as if he cannot fathom how such a mediocre, amateur performance is garnering such a reaction. He side steps Rebecca, gently nudging her to the side as he tries to regain control of the room.

"Wow, thanks for that, uh, stirring performance, Regina. We normally don't have singers give big speeches addressing each person in the room prior to their songs, but everyone seemed to like it a disproportionate amount so...good on you, I guess. Our next performer is -"

Rebecca steps down from the stage and her friends immediately surround her and whisk her away to the adjacent room for praise and congratulations. Nathaniel decides to hang back for the next act - a beat poem by a teenager dressed in all black - so he can get a handle on himself before officially greeting her.

He wasn't sure what he expected from the performance, or from his journey back to the living, breathing microcosm that is West Covina in general, but it certainly wasn't a complete upheaval of his emotions in under five minutes flat. The invitation to the open mic fell into his lap unexpectedly, by way of an off-hand comment from White Josh as they caught up over a beer the day prior. He debated his attendance, ping-ponging back and forth, the entire day as he sat through the negotiations of his return with Bert and his father. In the end, his curiosity won out and he's glad, now, that he was able to witness what turned out to be such a momentous occasion.

When he joins everyone in the back room, Rebecca's still in a huddled mass, basking in all the attention. Part of him wants to catch her eye, pull her away, steal a few moments for himself. But then he realizes it's an impulse from old, selfish Nathaniel, who would insert himself where he didn't belong, monopolize every second he could with her before she slipped through his fingers. Content with his decision, he heads for the door. His mind is clear and his heart is full, on its own, in a way it never was before.

But just as his fingers graze the grainy, painted wood, Rebecca's voice cuts through the din of the crowd, "Nathaniel! Wait!"

He turns and she's pushing through people to get to him, leaving her admirers back in her wake.

"Nathaniel, hi," she says, breathless. "You were going to leave without saying hello? I haven't seen you in...in…"

"...a year," he finishes for her.

"A year," she agrees, nodding.

"Sorry, it just looked like you were busy. I didn't want to intrude."

They stare at each other for a beat and he finds himself cataloguing every small change to her appearance since he's seen her last. Her hair is a little longer. She has another piercing in either ear. But all of it is inconsequential, completely overwhelmed by the way she glows, radiating happiness.

"You were great up there. Truly."

She waves her hand. "Stop. You don't have to say that. I know my voice sucks. My piano skills are subpar, at best. My friends are supportive probably to an unhealthy degree. Delusional, you might say."

"Maybe you don't have the best voice," he says and pauses, trying to choose the right words to express what he wants to say without sounding trite or indulgent, "but your lyrics were probably the most genuine and honest I've ever heard. And you know I don't humor people."

She smiles, touched, and seems lost for words.

"You really shined up there, Rebecca. This is your gift. I knew it as soon as you rewrote that stupid Ellison song. And now," he gestures around the room, "everyone else knows it too."

"Wow, thank you. That means a lot." She twists her fingers together and clears her throat. "So, how long are you here? I want to hear all about your new life at the zoo, which, by the way, is completely out-of-the-blue and I'm dying to know how it all came about."

"It's an animal sanctuary, actually -" he begins, but Greg appears from behind Rebecca and taps her on the shoulder before he can elaborate.

Rebecca instinctively spins around and Greg doesn't waste a second, tugging at her waist to pull her into a hug. Her arms stiffen for a moment and Nathaniel senses some reluctance, but he pushes the thought away, assuming it's another lingering remnant of old Nathaniel.

Greg says, "Hey, I told you you would be great, didn't I?" and locks eyes with Nathaniel over her shoulder. It's only for a fleeting second, but the message is crystal clear.

Nathaniel takes a step back and rubs the back of his neck, suddenly awkward in his own skin.

"Thanks for coming," she says as she pulls away.

"Nice to see you, Greg," Nathaniel says and offers his hand, since not addressing each other would make the interaction even more strained.

"Likewise," Greg says and grips his hand a bit more tight than necessary.

"Well, I should go," Nathaniel blurts out, "I have an early flight tomorrow."

"Oh no, I really do want to catch up with you," Rebecca says and grabs his forearm, pulling him closer.

"I'll be back in a few weeks, actually. For good."

"For good? Wait, really?!" Rebecca's eyes go wide in surprise and she looks to Greg whose expression doesn't change. "How didn't I know this? I thought you were off-the-grid forever."

"Not forever. The agreement was a year sabbatical. I came in for a few days to hammer out the transition details with Bert and my father."

Nathaniel doesn't miss the way Greg's jaw sets, the way his eyes zero in on Rebecca as he tries to catch every nuance of her reaction to the news.

"Stop by Rebetzel's on your first day. Item of your choice, on the house."

"I hope you're finally cashing in on my gluten-free pretzel idea."

"I am still _so_ not," she says with a giggle.

He snaps his fingers. "Damn. Well, I'll stop by for a black coffee then. March second. Mark your calendar."

"Consider it marked," she says with a smirk, tapping at her temple.

He exhales, holds her gaze, squeezing out one last moment. His neck feels warm and the words come out in a jumble, "OK, take care. Both of you, of course. We'll, um, talk soon. Bye."

As he leaves the bar, he looks back over his shoulder - another impulse he wishes he could squash - and she's doing the same, her eyes following him, not listening to whatever Greg and Valencia are saying. She gives him a tiny wave and mouths _Bye_.


	2. New You

**March 2, 2020**

Rebecca's early, which is almost unheard of at Rebetzel's, and AJ rubs his eyes in disbelief when he finds her in the back room at seven thirty, removing a baking sheet from the oven.

"Either I'm dreaming or...no, I must be dreaming. I've never seen you here before nine. When did you get here and what exactly are you doing?"

"Good morning, my esteemed colleague," she says, chipper, setting the tray down and removing the oven mitts from her hands. "What I'm doing is debuting a new recipe today. A grand unveiling. I worked on it all weekend."

"I already told you that peanut butter and cheese is gross. Stop trying to make it a thing. It's not a thing."

"First off, I am ahead of my time with that particular taste combination and the history books will reflect that in due time. Secondly, this is a brand new creation."

AJ sighs. "Fine, I'll bite. What is it?"

"A gluten-free pretzel," she says, holding both her hands out toward the sheet in a _ta-da_ motion.

"A gluten-free pretzel," he deadpans. He pinches himself in the arm. "Nope, definitely not dreaming. Somehow I'm conscious and you just said you made a gluten-free pretzel, which you once said you would make, quote, over your dead, carb-stuffed body? I don't believe it."

"Believe it!"

She tears off a piece of the hot pretzel and splits it in half, presenting one half to AJ while popping the other in her mouth. He takes a bite with considerable skepticism.

"Ah yes," he says, while chewing, "I'm getting notes of cardboard…"

"I know, I know. It's not perfect yet. I'm still working out the kinks."

"This recipe answers the question: What if we recreated our normal pretzel but made it worse?"

Rebecca pins him with a venomous stare. "Listen, this could be a way to bring in different customers. Ones with, I don't know, dietary restrictions."

"And how much did that gluten-free flour cost?"

"Irrelevant."

"Seems like cost of goods would be relevant to a business owner."

Rebecca grips the edge of the counter. "Hey AJ, honey, can ya go up front and get ready to open? Put these in the display case and label them. Asking you as the business owner and the person who's going to help you pass your torts test, lest you forget."

AJ rolls his eyes but does what he's told, rearranging the display case up front to make room for the new offering and sticking a tented card in the case, strategically pricing the item at two dollars more than their plain pretzel.

In the minutes before they officially open, Rebecca is a restless. She adjusts her apron, untying and retying the strings around her back, compulsively smoothing her hands over the front pocket. When that doesn't expel enough nervous energy, she shifts her attention to repositioning all the items on the counter - pen, notepad, salt shaker - several times, all while glancing at the door every few seconds in anticipation.

AJ, observing her behavior, asks, already exasperated, "What is with you today? Are you on something? Because, if so, please share with the rest of the class."

At exactly eight o'clock, Nathaniel strides into the lobby in a sharp, tailored grey suit and purple tie, messenger bag slung over his shoulder, perfectly clean shaven, as if he hasn't missed a beat in the year he was absent.

Rebecca straightens up her posture as soon as she sees him, and AJ shoots her the most judgmental sidelong glance she's ever received from him. Which is saying a lot. "Oooh," he coos, "oh, I see what's happening."

"Just get him a coffee and be normal, OK?"

Nathaniel approaches the security desk first and Leonard is delightfully surprised to see him. He stands and gives him a hardy handshake. "Nathaniel! Holy shit. Welcome back! Has it been a year already?!"

Rebecca's face falls with the realization that the security desk guy, of all people, knew the details of Nathaniel's sabbatical better than she did. She patiently waits, pretends to be busy by wiping down the counter with a washcloth, while the two make small talk about Leonard's daughter, who apparently is named Kylee and won MVP on her soccer team this year.

After he wraps up with Leonard, Nathaniel approaches the Rebetzel's counter with a reserved smile.

"Hi."

"Hi," she squeaks, her voice coming out a full octave higher than normal.

AJ's eyebrows raise so high they might burst through the ceiling.

"You know, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I missed this place. West Covina, I mean."

Rebecca clears her throat and her voice returns to its normal pitch-level, "It missed you too. The town, I mean."

Everything about his expression is soft and thoughtful and her stomach lurches like she's gone over the first steep hill of a rollercoaster. She swallows. "Well, welcome back to the human world. Did all that time with the monkeys lose its _appeal_?"

Nathaniel squints, confused.

"You know, _a peel_. Like a banana," she quickly explains, her cheeks flushing embarrassment.

"Oh! Right," Nathaniel says and laughs politely.

"Wow, that was _barely_ even a joke," AJ mutters under his breath.

Rebecca forcefully grabs the takeaway cup out of AJ's hands and passes it to Nathaniel. "Well, here's your coffee, on the house, as promised."

"On the house?" AJ interjects.

"Thank you," Nathaniel says, accepting the cup as he surveys the rest of the display case. "Is that...a gluten-free pretzel? It can't be."

Rebecca gives him a sly smile. "Maybe."

"Did you make that for me?" he asks, his voice trailing up in genuine surprise.

"I concede that _maybe_ you had a point about the gluten-free option. It could open up a whole new segment of customers for us."

"Thank you. That's really thoughtful," he says as if he still can't believe it.

AJ retrieves a pretzel from the display case and offers it to Nathaniel, "Yes, so thoughtful of her. That'll be five fifty."

"AJ," Rebecca scolds.

"No, he's right," Nathaniel reaches into his pocket to pull out a credit card. "Let me pay. Put the coffee on there too."

AJ runs the card and then sing-songs, "OK, nice of you to stop by. Have a nice day!"

"Right, I should get to work," Nathaniel says, awkwardly juggling the coffee and pretzel while trying to put away his credit card. "It's really nice to see you again."

"Yeah," she agrees, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I'll see you around. Here, I mean. Of course."

"Great."

"Great."

"Great," AJ chimes in. "Enjoy your weirdly early morning pretzel!"

Taking his cue, Nathaniel heads for the elevator and Rebecca punches AJ in the arm once the doors ding closed.

"Ow!"

"Can't you just be nice for like two seconds of your life? It's his first day back."

"That was the saddest excuse for flirting I've ever seen in my life."

"That's because it wasn't flirting."

"And also, what about Greg?"

"What _about_ Greg?"

"All I know is every since that you made your little declaration at the open mic about being ready for love, he's been buzzing around you like an annoying housefly. I doubt he'll be happy about this little development. So tragic."

"Shut up, you're tragic," she snips as she brushes past him into the back room.

A few hours later, Rebecca is surprised to see Paula enter the lobby. Since she started at Eastbriar, Paula rarely ever stopped by Rebetzel's anymore - a consequence of the establishment only being open during normal office hours.

"Paula!" she exclaims, rushing out from behind the counter to hug her, "I can't believe you came all the way across town to surprise me during your lunch break!"

Paula squeezes her back and says into her shoulder, "Oh honey, I'm sorry, I'm not here to see you."

Rebecca pulls away, confused. "What? You're not?"

"I'm meeting Nathaniel for lunch, actually."

"Nathaniel? Huh? Why?"

Paula's brow furrows as if it must be obvious. "I'm getting him up to speed on our cases." Rebecca shows no recognition. "For our pro bono work. At the prison."

"Oh!"

"Not trying to make you feel guilty, because I know you're focusing on Rebecca right now, and you know I think that's great, but I can use the manpower. As it turns out, convincing lawyers with a full caseload to work pro bono is not as easy as I anticipated. And Nathaniel wants to get back involved. He negotiated with his father to allow him to work part-time on these cases as a condition of his return."

"Really? Wow. Huh, I wonder why he didn't tell me about that."

Paula takes Rebecca by the shoulders. "Sweetie, I mean this in the nicest way possible. Not everything is about you."

Rebecca shrugs out of her hold and defensively crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I know _that_. It's just I got him into this racket and now he's gonna walk around like he owns the place and not even tell me what's going on?"

The elevators open and Nathaniel grins when he sees Paula. "Wow, Paula," he says, marvelling at her appearance, "If only I could get this band of misfits to look this put-together, maybe we could actually impress a client for once."

"Ready to go?"

"Oh, you aren't staying here?" Rebecca asks, instantly feeling left out.

"No, we're going out. Someplace fancy. Expensing it on my firm's account," Paula says with enthusiasm, wiggling her eyebrows. "God that never gets old."

"Oh OK," Rebecca says, saddened, her eyes dropping to the floor.

"Hey," Nathaniel murmurs to her, his eyes tracing circles over her face, "why don't I give you a call tonight. Catch up? You can tell me about your new life as West Covina's beloved singer-songwriter."

"And you can tell her all about what you're up to too," Paula adds.

At that, Rebecca brightens, "Yeah, I would like that."

As Nathaniel and Paula leave together, she overhears him asking for updates on Hanifa and Sybil and the other women at the prison with an enthusiasm that makes her ache. She set her volunteering aside to focus on songwriting, a conscious choice she made with eyes wide open. Writing, learning an instrument, performing, and running a business is hard, hard work. And costly, at that, in both time and money. So while she considers herself happy, sure, it doesn't stop her from missing the satisfaction that comes from work that she is empirically, undeniably good at. Work that comes easy. While rewarding, all her new endeavors are a slow, uphill climb.

And Nathaniel's detachment from her - which, again, is what she wanted - makes her ache in an entirely different way. His renewed zest for life is palpable. He's energetic, focused, and...happy. Yes, that's it, she muses. He's happy. Without her. When it was an abstract concept, knowing he was out in the universe finding his bliss, unseen, it was one thing. But to see him now, in front of her, practically glowing, all self-assured and positive, makes her feel somehow simultaneously both happy for him and sad she missed all the intervening steps of his transformation.

"Hey!" AJ yells, clapping his hands once in front of her. Unsure how long he was trying to get her attention, she snaps back to life in time to see Greg coming through the door.

"When did this lobby become Grand Central Station?" AJ remarks as an aside.

"Greg," she says, in shock, as he approaches the counter, "what are you doing here? Shouldn't you be prepping for dinner?"

Greg looks all around the lobby like he's searching for something. "I was, uh, in the neighborhood and wanted to see how you're doing today."

"Oh. I'm good, I guess. How are you?"

Greg barely registers her answer because his gaze has landed, afixed, on the display case. "Gluten-free pretzel," he states, self-satisfied, as if he's solved all the world's mysteries.

"Want to try one? I'll give you a free sample."

He scowls. "I bet the air in my mouth tastes better than that," he snarks, but then immediately back tracks, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...not because...I'm sure it's great if you like that kind of thing."

Rebecca says nothing and purses her lips, annoyed.

"I'm sorry. Can we start over?"

She considers this, but decides she's not in the mood to deal with a brooding Greg today. "AJ and I need to get back to work, actually, so can we talk later?"

For a few moments Rebecca and Greg lock eyes, caught in a visual stand-off, until Greg nods slowly, reluctantly accepting her request, and leaves.

Rebecca lets out a frustrated sigh once he's safely out of earshot and AJ joins her, expelling a breath, "Tragic."


	3. Call Me

**March 2, 2020**

It takes Nathaniel longer than he initially planned to reach out to Rebecca. Truth be told, he almost forgot he committed to the call, after an excruciating day at Mountaintop - twelve hours spent at the office, mostly on conference calls with his father, plus the extended lunch with Paula thrown in the middle for good measure. But thankfully he remembers while he's brushing his teeth, in the midst of his bedtime routine, when a large granule of salt falls from his forearm into the sink with the tiniest plink. (How it managed to cling onto his skin and hold on so valiantly through his entire day remains a mystery.)

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Hi." She sounds a little sleepy, but upbeat and, best of all, happy to hear from him.

"This is Nathaniel."

"I know," she says with a breathy laugh.

"This is me. Calling you. Like I said earlier."

"I see that."

"I know it's a little late. Is it too late? I didn't want you to think I ditched you."

"Oh no, it's fine. I'm sure you had a long first day."

Nathaniel migrates over to his couch and settles in, draping an arm casually over its back.

"So -" they both say at the same time, overlapping each other.

There's a beat of silence and he defers to her, waiting for her to break the silence.

"I don't even know where to start," she says, her voice weary.

"Should I go first?" he offers.

"Yes. Please. Tell me what you've been doing this past year, besides getting a great tan."

He grins at that and wonders what other things she may have noticed about his appearance. The idea that she's noticed, maybe even appreciated, his appearance catches him off-guard. He hadn't considered that he was even remotely on her radar anymore, given what (and maybe who) has been keeping her busy for the past year.

"In Guatemala I was volunteering at an animal sanctuary."

"So not a zoo then?"

"No. Its mission is conservation of native species, the most endangered ones, specifically, and rehabilitating injured or sick animals."

"Wow. That's amazing. What exactly did you do there day-to-day?"

"I made myself available for legal advice, of course. Their greatest concern was the black market sale of animals. But, aside from that, I did whatever they needed. And I mean anything."

Rebecca is silent on the other end, waiting for him to elaborate, he suspects.

"Lots of poop involved," he explains. "Absolutely nothing makes me squeamish anymore."

That earns him a hearty laugh, which makes him wish they were in the same room together. He would love to see her throw her head back and touch her chest, the way she does when something really tickles her and she can't hold it in.

"Tell me - what percentage of the day did you spend with animals versus humans?"

He thinks for a moment and contemplates whether to divulge the honest, embarrassing answer or sugarcoat it. He decides to split the difference. "Maybe seventy-five percent animals?"

"Oh my god! Seventy-five percent?!"

"I know, I know. I may be a little rusty with human conversation. I'm used to talking to monkeys all day, and speaking only in Spanish to people, so hopefully I've made some sense thus far."

She's giggling like crazy and the sound dances into his ears like music. He presses the phone harder against his ear.

"Rapid fire: Who's your favorite monkey?"

"How could I possibly choose?"

"This is a nail biter."

"It has to be Doctor Plátanos. He's a capuchin."

"Doctor Plátanos?" she repeats, amused. "Did you bestow this name upon him? Or did the sanctuary?"

"I did. Plátanos is bananas. Because I'm not creative. And Doctor because I talked to him so much he became like a therapist to me. That monkey knows more about my life than any human will or should."

Between laughs she says, "That is so cute."

"Toward the end he got bored with me, though."

"Oh?"

"He's the alpha male of the group, so he had a monopoly on mating with all the females. My novelty eventually wore off and he moved on to wooing his many female companions."

"Wow, tough break."

"I know. Rejected by a monkey. Thankfully I'm used to rejection now."

He means it as a joke but she doesn't laugh, and there's a pregnant pause, inciting a twisting pang in his stomach, before she responds with, "It sounds like a monkey version of The Bachelor."

"That's a TV show, right?"

"Only one of the most watched TV shows on the air. I started watching it as a joke when we were doing the whole three dates thing - at the time I was desperate to get any kind of insight - and then I started liking it unironically and now I'm hooked and I can't stop."

"Is this the point in the conversation I remind you you went to Harvard?"

"And?"

"Never mind."

"Nathaniel, I do not believe in guilty pleasures. Like what you like and own it."

"Fair enough."

Nathaniel tries his best to imagine her. He decides she's probably in bed - it is late, after all - propped up against the headboard, Ruth Gator Ginsberg occupying the other side of the bed. In his mind, her hair is loose, cascading over her shoulders, she's wearing no makeup, and she's holding the phone tight to her ear, smiling.

With an air of hesitation, almost meekness, she says, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving? I had to hear it second-hand from George, which, let me tell you, is pretty demoralizing. And then it was radio silence for a whole year."

"Rebecca," he breathes, "I was trying to give you space. I thought that's what you wanted. You said you needed to focus on yourself and your passion, and I decided I should do the same."

When her end goes quiet, the pang is back.

"I get it. I do," she says softly.

"So, um," he clears his throat, desperate to change the subject, "please tell me how you went from singing musicals ad nauseum in our shared office to -"

"Whoa whoa whoa," she cuts him off, and he swears he can hear her smile rekindle through the phone, "don't pretend you didn't like it. Before I moved into that office you were sitting in there in silence like a sad librarian."

He huffs into the phone.

"Admit it. I saw your foot tap. I heard you hum along. I think you may have even cracked a smile once."

"Don't make me say it."

"No guilty pleasures, remember? No shame!"

"Fine. I did like some of them."

"Such as?"

"Rebecca..."

"We're not talking about anything else until you name three musicals you liked."

He sighs, knowing she'll stick to her guns until he caves. "I like the Wizard of Oz one."

"Wicked," she supplies for him. "I'm imagining you passionately singing Defying Gravity to an audience of flying monkeys."

He ignores her aside and continues his list, "The one with the sad teenagers."

"Dear Evan Hansen."

"And Hamilton, I guess. Satisfied?"

"Yes, very."

"So can I finally finish asking my question now? How did you decide to start songwriting?"

He hears a rustling on her end, like bedsheets. Maybe she is in bed, like he suspected, and she's rolling over or lying down or getting more comfortable. She sucks in a breath, as if she's about to speak, but she exhales and no words come out for several seconds.

"Honestly, it's because of you."

"Me?"

"When you sang my song at the Ellison revue, it deeply affected me. I stayed up all night rewriting those lyrics and then hearing you sing it was just...it was so incredible. So gratifying. It was like no feeling I ever had before."

"Wow."

"Why did you do that for me? Why humiliate yourself in front of all those people, especially knowing how furious Connie would be?"

The answer is easy. He loved her.

He saw the way her face lit up when she got the part. The only reason he joined that silly show was to be in her orbit again and he felt no particular stake in the performance other than her enjoyment of it. Her joy was infectious and all he wanted was to be close to it, to fuel it any way he could. When she had been so utterly devastated by the prospect of singing her song - the one she had wanted so badly at the outset - the choice to give her that moment was a no-brainer.

"The truth is, at the time, I was trying to show you I loved you in ways that weren't messed up."

"It worked. And for what it's worth, it's probably the least messed up show of love I've ever experienced."

He lets her words linger - it's satisfying to hear out loud - and he can't help thinking of their almost-kiss backstage. He wanted it, wanted her, any part of her, so badly it was painful. And yet, with the benefit of hindsight, he recognizes now that the moment would have been ephemeral, at best, with how she harbored feelings for both Josh and Greg.

"You mean forcing George to buy a pretzel everyday wasn't?"

"That certainly explains why he suddenly stopped coming to Rebetzel's after you left. Anyway, getting back to your question, I started voice lessons and piano lessons. And I just write and write and write. All the time. It's all I do when I'm not working at Rebetzel's."

"And here I thought you hated hard work."

"People change."

"They do."

He smiles and, while he can't see her, he sees in his mind, clear as day, she's smiling back.

"You sound tired."

"Humans are exhausting."

"Rapid fire, before we hang up -"

"Why is everything rapid fire?"

"What are the three things I need to know about new Nathaniel?"

"Good question," he says, drawing out the words, to bide himself a few moments to think. He rises from the couch and paces the length of it, as perpetual motion usually helps him think on his feet. "Well, for one, after shoveling animal excrement for the better part of a year, I would say that I don't think any task is beneath me anymore."

"Wow. Now that's a development."

"Two, I'm not wasting my time caring what other people think anymore. Including my father. Especially my father."

"Double wow."

"And three, I'm trying to be more honest and direct. Not an easy feat with the upbringing I had, but I'm trying."

As he says it, he realizes he still hasn't asked her one question that's been nagging at him since the open mic. So much for being direct.

"Are you with Greg?"

"Wh - what?"

A complete lack of transition will do that - leave someone reeling - and this just confirms he needs to brush up on his human conversation skills after all. He squeezes his eyes shut, mortified at how it came out, as if apropos of nothing.

"Sorry. Um, I was just curious because at the show it seemed like you might be."

"No, no, we're not together. We're friends. Kind of. We've kept in touch. Sort of."

"Sounds clear as mud," he jokes.

She laughs and it slightly ameliorates his embarrassment for asking in the first place. "No, no. It's just… When I broke things off with him, he said he wouldn't wait for me. And I didn't want him to. I mean, I told him exactly what I told you. But lately, he's been acting different. Weird. I don't know. Sorry, I don't even know why I'm telling you all this."

"It's OK." Not wanting to push the issue any further, he switches tracks, "So, what about you?"

"What about me?"

"What are your three things? What do I need to know about new Rebecca?"

"Oh, right. For one, what you just said about honesty - ditto. That's one thing I'm continually working on. Especially being honest with myself. That hasn't been my strong suit in the past, as you probably noticed. Two, as you mentioned, I'm putting in the hard work now, in all aspects of my life. Instilling some self-discipline."

"That's a good one."

"Shush. And three, I am trying hard to let go of the past so I can move forward. Trying to minimize beating myself up over past mistakes - forgive myself - which is hard when you've made as many mistakes as I have."

"I can relate."

"Also, number three b, I hate olives now."

"What?"

"I have a theory that it's from this medication I started taking semi-recently, but I suddenly hate olives."

"Duly noted," he say, chuckling, and they settle into a comfortable silence.

"Hey," she says and in her voice he senses hopeful anticipation.

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to be friends?"

"Friends?"

"What if we started with a clean slate and tried to be friends? Actual, real friends."

"Friends," he repeats, trying out the word in his mouth.

When he reflects on their history together, at no point would he describe the two of them as friends. They've been colleagues, lovers, even adversaries at times. The closest they ever got to being friends was when they shared an office. Forty hours a week talking to each other, working in close proximity, and, yes, listening to an endless string of hummed musical numbers, brought them very close. The sex, ironically enough, helped convince himself that their perceived emotional intimacy was superficial, all tangled up with their physical need for each other. That is, until he realized he was hopelessly in love with her.

The idea of becoming friends is an appealing one. He already knows he likes spending time with her, sex or not, and, in truth, he's floundering to figure out where he fits in the West Covina ecosystem after his extended absence. Since his return he's felt isolated, awkward, and could use someone to bridge the gap. He could use a real friend. Even better, he could use a real friend who also happens to be at the heart of West Covina's social network.

And having the distance from her - a year to reflect on their relationship, acknowledge all its faults, and move forward - has proved healthy for him. Freeing. Forging a new relationship with her, one based on knowing each other as people, rather than on sex or power or obsession or infatuation or idealization or some symbolic amalgam of his unresolved issues, seems like another step forward.

On the other hand, what would Doctor Plátanos think about this development?

"Can we try that?" she asks, an uncharacteristic timidness in her voice.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

With renewed enthusiasm, her sleepiness completely zapped from her voice, she says, "First order of business, you're coming over next week to drink wine and watch The Bachelor with me. That's a classic friend activity. And AJ's been busy studying all the time lately - blegh - so I really need someone to snark with me."

"Second order of business, I veto the first order."

"Nathaniel," she whines, "I promise it'll be fun. Just watch one with me. One. And if you don't like it, we'll never watch it again."

"Why am I getting the sense you've tried this with all your other friends before?"

"Please?"

He imagines her sitting upright in her bed, suddenly full of energy over the thought, waiting on his answer.

Well, he thinks, there's certainly one thing that will never change. He can't say no to her.

"One," he concedes, putting on his best exasperated voice.

She squeals with delight and he instinctively jerks the phone away from his ear.

"See, you're a great friend already," she says, fondly.

"Indeed."

"Good night, friend. See you tomorrow."

"Good night, Rebecca."


	4. It's Love

**April 13, 2020**

"Are you ready for the most _dramatic_ night of your life?" Rebecca asks, with relish, when she opens the door, armed and dangerous with a full glass of red wine in-hand, to a bemused Nathaniel.

"You say that every week," he replies with a smirk as he brushes past her into the apartment.

"But tonight is extra dramatic," she elaborates, excitedly, closing the door behind him. "We're down to three. And you know what that means."

He walks to the kitchen and Rebecca trails close behind - she would be skipping if she could without spilling her wine - and he opens a cabinet door above the counter.

"I have no idea what that means," he replies, pulling out a glass from the cabinet and holding it up to the ceiling light to check for spots.

"It means fantasy suites," she says, her eyes going wide.

He doesn't react.

She pulls on his forearm, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Stop that and listen to me! It's fantasy suites."

"Still not following," he deadpans, pretending not to care, pouring himself a hefty helping from the open bottle of wine. But she can read him like book. The shine in his eyes and his subtle smile betray him. He's charmed by her enthusiasm, and, in fact, does want to know what exactly this means.

"Kyle's gonna go one-on-one dates with each woman and then they decide if they want to spend the night together in the fantasy suites. No cameras. Overnight." She wiggles her eyebrows. "Catch my drift?"

"Sex?"

"Pretty much," she giggles and raises her glass to him as an offering. He closes the distance, clinking them together and they both sip.

By their third Monday night of appointment television watching, they dropped any pretense of trying to impress the other with their appearances. What was the point anyway? They had seen each other in every state of dress and undress in the past. So, Rebecca, accordingly, is swathed in head-to-toe comfort - a slouchy, long-sleeve heather gray t-shirt with _Napping Champ_ emblazoned across the chest in navy blue lettering with drawstring lounge pants on the bottom. Similarly, Nathaniel dons a simple black t-shirt and grey sweatpants that boast _Stanford Water Polo_ in cardinal red down the leg. Yet somehow, in some mystery wrapped in an enigma, no matter what he wears, she thinks he looks like he waltzed right out of a J. Crew ad.

"Let me get this straight. He's going to have sex with three people in a row? Kind of crass, don't you think?"

"They don't _have_ to have sex," she says, defensive at first, but then thinks better of it. "Yeah, they probably have sex."

Rebecca saunters over to the couch and plops down, settling into the cushions with a leg tucked under her. "Speaking of dates, how was your date?" she asks and reaches for the remote, as if she only casually wants to know.

"Oh, fine," he says, nonchalant, walking over to the couch to join her.

"Just fine?" she asks, dubious, as she turns on the TV, "What was wrong with her? Too thin? Too blonde? Too tall? Tits too perky?"

"Can you not say _tits_? It sounds weird when you say it."

"Answer the question."

"She was nice enough. There just was no -"

"Spark?"

"I was going to say connection. What's a nice way of saying she wasn't the brightest bulb in the box?"

"Ha. So not a Stanford woman, I presume."

He shakes his head in the negative and winces.

"So, did you let her down easy?"

Nathaniel sips his wine and pointedly looks at the TV, dodging the question.

"Come on, don't ghost her. That's the worst," she scolds, gesturing with the remote.

After he swallows, he admits, "We're going out again, actually."

"What? Why?"

Again, he sips in the same deliberate way and avoids her eyes.

"Oh, I see," she says, knowingly, and sets her glass down on the coffee table.

"What?"

"You are such a man, you know that?"

"What does that mean?"

"You're going out with her again - even though you have _zero_ connection - so you can try to fuck her. Admit it."

"When you put it that way, it sounds so -"

"Crass?"

He shrugs, sheepish. She's got him pegged and it annoys her probably more than it should.

"No, I get it," she says, "Meanwhile, I'm doing the responsible thing for once, not having any one-night stands, and taking matters into my own hands, so to speak, with my new vibrator, Buzz Aldrin."

"Why is that more responsible?"

"No one gets hurt. I'm done hurting people with my carelessness. And you are stringing this poor girl along!"

"Oh please," he scoffs, "Who's to say she doesn't want the exact same thing?"

Rebecca rolls her eyes in lieu of a verbal response.

"Sorry, but taking things into my own hands, as you put it, is just not the same."

"The end is sure the same."

"No, you cannot compare those two things. Being with a woman is…"

She leans forward, intrigued by his train of thought, but he stops short.

"No, go on. You've piqued my interest."

"You sure?"

She nods vehemently.

"Being with a woman is a whole...sensory experience. It's not just about getting off." His eyes dart to the floor, a little self-conscious, but he plows on, "Women smell good and taste good. They're soft and they feel a certain way that's impossible to replicate by yourself."

After a few moments of weighty silence, she realizes she's been staring at his mouth the entire time he was speaking. She swallows and her own mouth has gone dry - a bit stunned by both his frankness and the inherent romanticism in his explanation - and her body releases a tiny, almost imperceptible shiver.

Is that how he used to think about her? Did he think about how she smelled? How she felt?

Tasted?

As their platonic friendship rapidly flourished over the past six-or-so weeks, their talks have grown increasingly more open and honest. Without the pressure of a romantic relationship and all the accompanying expectations, and without any preoccupation of presenting herself in a certain light, she speaks to him almost as freely as she would with any other friend.

He is her first straight male friend. Well, to clarify, it's her first friendship with a straight male in which she has no ulterior motives, at least consciously. And besides the fact that she enjoys his company, getting an unfiltered straight male perspective on things - presumingly from someone who also has no ulterior motives, at least consciously - has been a mixture of fascinating and enlightening. Even his takes on the overly-produced fantasy of _The Bachelor_ have given her food for thought to mull over in the days between episodes.

However, despite their growing mutual comfort, conversations like these still manage to be mired in layers of meaning, leaving Rebecca struggling to parse out what's personal to her, and their past romance, and what isn't. She tries not to take any relationship or sex talk personally, but, despite her best efforts, she still occasionally gets blindsided with a twinge of longing here or a sting of jealousy there.

The _Previously On The Bachelor_ recap begins and she clears her throat, grateful for the distraction. "Oh, show's starting," she stammers as she grabs the remote and turns up the volume, using the other hand to discreetly rub away the goosebumps raised on her arm.

The show opens with the first date between the bachelor and contestant Amanda. She's the classic all-American girl-next-door type, tall and leggy with mousy brown hair, who speaks in a charming (though gratingly high-pitched) Southern twang. They're in Bora Bora, on location, and everything is planned down to the tiniest detail by production. The couple are treated to a day trip on a catamaran followed by a romantic dinner date on the beach. The couple are not very physical with each other but have an easy back-and-forth, and Amanda is portrayed as innocent and sweet. The entire date goes off without a hitch and Amanda confidently says, to camera, just before they retire to their private night alone, "I know that Kyle loves me. I know in my heart it's going to be the two of us in the end. I have no doubt in my mind."

When the program cuts to commercial, Nathaniel immediately says, adamant, "No chance. She has zero percent chance of winning."

"What are you talking about? She's such a doll!"

"There's no sexual chemistry. They're like two kids punching each other in the arm on the playground."

"Listen to what she said. She's so confident! How could she be that confident if there wasn't something there?" Rebecca gestures wildly at the TV with one hand, wine sloshing in its glass in the other.

He bites his lip and she senses he wants to say something but is holding back.

"What? Spill it." she urges.

He strokes his chin with his thumb and forefinger. "I was that confident too, you know," he says, hesitantly, "About us. The way you acted on our date, I really thought you were going to choose me. I was _that_ sure." He nods at the TV screen.

"Oh," she murmurs and drops her eyes.

"Hey, no," he says, touching her hand, "I don't want you to feel bad. I'm fine. I'm just saying I thought you felt the same way about me, but you didn't. That's all."

"The funny thing is, I did feel the same way. In the moment. That's why I...we…"

He raises an eyebrow, "Circumvented the rules?"

She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. "We shouldn't have done that. Though, _technically_ we didn't break any rules. As undignified as it was."

"True, no shirts, or any other articles of clothing were removed." He looks down at his glass and lets out a nervous chuckle, "I hadn't, um, done _that_ since high school."

"Cum in your pants?" she says, laughing, "No, me neither."

She let things go way too far on their date. In the moment, kissing him had felt so good, so right, an overwhelming catharsis after all the tired months of back-and-forth between them. So once she grew tired of stretching up to reach his mouth, she broke their kiss and tugged at his hands, dragging him down to the blanket where they proceeded to shamelessly make out in the open air of the Hollywood hills, Marty Macaroon crooning on in the background unaware. But things escalated, the way they always do with the two of them, and before long he was grinding against her, whispering hushed promises in her ear, while she melted into him, unabashedly reveling in the friction and letting her climax wash over her, despite the small voice in the back of her head saying it was against the spirit of the agreement.

In the haze of the come-down, their faces flush and hearts racing, his fingers caught in a knot in her curls, the reality set in and he laughed, full-bodied and deep, into her neck. The absurdity of it - two grown adults dry humping each other in public view with absolutely no shame - certainly was not lost on her and soon she was giggling right along with him. He propped himself up on his forearms and grinned down at her like a lovestruck dope and, in that moment, she truly believed she would choose him.

"Listen, what I'm trying to say is on your date, I thought it would be you. And when I was with Josh, I thought it was him. And Greg…"

"I get it."

"Though, to be clear, what we did...I didn't do that with Josh or Greg. In case that makes it any better. Which I'm sure it doesn't."

"The whole game was a dumb idea anyway. We shouldn't have agreed to it in the first place."

"In retrospect, the fact that I made columns on a whiteboard to try to make the decision should have tipped me off that I wasn't ready for a relationship with any of you, honestly."

The show comes back on and Rebecca is happy to drop the subject. The next date is with Jenna, blonde bombshell and occasional troublemaker in the house. (Nathaniel's favorite, thus far, Rebecca can tell.) But, unlike Amanda, she and the bachelor have nothing but chemistry and can barely keep their hands off each other. On their date, the two are taken to a small, private island where they have a picnic on the beach and jump off some steep cliffs into the ocean, but most of the screen time is dominated by the two making out under a waterfall. At the end of the day, Kyle says to camera, "I'm falling in love with Jenna." Cut to commercial.

"I changed my mind. It's Jenna," Rebecca says, proverbial hearts in her eyes, "He said he loves her."

"Mmm, that's not exactly what he said. He said he's _falling_ in love with her," Nathaniel replies with skepticism, "Though, I agree he's clearly into her."

"_Falling_ in love. In love. Whatever. He loves her. Everyone else can pack it in."

"No, there _is_ a difference. He didn't say _I love her_ or even _I'm in love with her_, which are different things."

"You either love someone or you don't. You can't half love someone."

"When you're _falling in love_ it's like pre-love. You think you have potential to love someone in the future. _In love_ is more like infatuation. The puppy-love stages. _Love_ is when it's deeper than that."

"What, are you some kind of love expert now?"

"Do you really think that one moment you don't love someone and then - bam - suddenly the next moment you do? And that's it?"

"Yes!" she exclaims, getting heated, "There is always a moment, whether you consciously realize it or not, that you start loving someone."

"Wow."

"What?"

"It's just...everything is so black-and-white with you."

That gives her pause, of course, as she's so acutely aware of her problems with less-than-nuanced thinking. He probably has no idea the weight those words carry for her.

She still remembers, clear as the day, the moment she knew she loved him. In the midst of the affair, and, not coincidentally, the pinnacle, intensity-wise, of her post-suicide attempt therapy, Rebecca abruptly retreated to the supply closet mid-workday. Nathaniel, misinterpreting her disappearing act as an invitation, walked in on her having a full-blown, crippling panic attack. He hesitated only a few seconds, his brain switching gears on-the-fly, then drew her to his chest, holding her tight against him. (She still wonders, to this day, where he learned this very specific, valuable skill.) She buried her face in his shirt, smearing mascara all over the crisp white fabric, and wrapped her arms around his waist in a vice grip until she was able to breathe normally again and finish out the rest of the day.

But it wasn't even that moment that she knew she loved him.

In the aftermath, as they sat across from each other in their shared office, he didn't draw attention to it. He didn't ask for thanks or an apology or anything at all. Though he kept a watchful eye on her side of the desk the remainder of the afternoon, they discussed nothing but work. He made her feel like everything was normal.

Like she was normal.

When he left at the end of the day, he put a warm hand on her shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.

And she loved him.

But the timing was all wrong, with his having a girlfriend, with their having an affair, and her dedication to her recovery sans relationship. So she packed the feelings away in a tiny mental box, until months later when he finally confessed his love for her in the holding cell and she couldn't hide it any longer.

She briefly contemplates telling him the story, as proof that these moments are real and can happen.

"Did I say something wrong? Where did you go?" he asks, noticing her change in demeanor.

She decides dredging up the past isn't worth what it could stir up, especially given how loaded their conversation tonight has already been with the show's all-too-relevant, down-to-three-contestants, so-meta-she-could-scream episode.

"Sorry," she finally says, shaking her head, "You're probably right. I tend to do that - think in black-and-white - when I shouldn't."

The final date of the episode is with Brooke, a petite, quiet, down-to-earth Midwesterner with dark hair and soulful eyes. The two make an intimate mahi-mahi dinner together at a resort and eat their creation out on a terrace during sunset. It's definitely the most understated of the dates. That is, up until the strategically-timed fireworks ignite and fill the sky with color as the couple gaze out on the horizon.

"I've changed my mind again. It's Brooke," Rebecca says, causing Nathaniel to laugh and then tip back his glass to drink the remainder of his wine.

"They're clearly trying to make the audience think it's going to be her," he says, waving a hand toward the screen.

"Why do you say that?"

"Because they did something subdued and not over-the-top romantic. Save for the fireworks, of course." There's an annoyed edge to his voice, like he's been personally slighted. "They're presenting her as the different choice compared to the other two, showing a more, quote, normal side and how they could settle down together. Or something."

"Why are you upset about this?"

Ignoring her question, he goes on, "Plus, they showed her last. They always show her last. Classic recency bias."

"He did only say he loved Jenna, though."

He sighs, "We've been over this."

"But also," she continues, holding up her pointer finger, "his conversations with Brooke have all been totally surface level. Actually, now that I think about it, that's true of all the relationships. Why don't they ever discuss the _real_ stuff?"

"Like what?"

"Religion, politics, kids, money. What they really need out of a relationship."

"And what would you tell him? About what you really need."

"Well, if it were me, I would say _Hi, I'm Rebecca Bunch. I have BPD. I have therapy every Thursday at three o'clock that I cannot miss - no skipping or excuses - no matter what, not even if we're in the middle of doing the naked pretzel. Kick me out of bed, if necessary._"

He gives her a half-smile. "Cute. What else?"

"I would probably tell him about my whole abandonment thing."

"Care to say more about that?"

"I won't bore you with the details but it all stems from my father leaving me as a child. Every man I love tends to abandon me, leave me at the altar, move away, yadda yadda yadda. You know how it goes. And when I feel abandoned I tend to throw back a bunch of shots and show up completely wasted at my ex-boyfriend's apartment and try to sleep with him. You catching on?"

"Ah," he says in acknowledgement, "Yeah, we never, um, really talked about that night."

It dawns on her how confusing it must have been for him. She blew in and out of his apartment like a hurricane without one word of explanation. And now it's overdue by more than a year.

"Greg and I had a big fight that day and he left in the middle of it. I can't blame him. I mean, he had to put his mental health and sobriety first and how can I argue with that?" She takes a deep breath and sighs. "It's really my own fault. I didn't even communicate what I needed. How was he supposed to know?"

She pauses and realizes she's gotten a bit carried away with the conversation, revealing more than necessary, making it more about herself than necessary. It makes her sad, thinking back to that night and her subsequent backslide and how she tried to pull Nathaniel and Josh down with her.

She meets his eyes and he's listening intently, his expression soft and vaguely curious.

Wanting to take the attention off of herself, she asks, "What about you?"

"What would I tell Kyle?"

"Or the bachelorette, in your case. If you were totally upfront about what you need, what would you say to her?"

He bites his lip, thinking, and then says, softly, "I think all I really need is to know she loves me back."

Rebecca's taken aback this response, her eyes going wide.

He takes that as a cue to further explain, "The next time I'm with someone, I don't want to ever wonder how they feel. I don't want any ambiguity. If she loves me, I want her to say it. Out loud. Unapologetically. That's all I want."

The way his expression is so open, she can tell the gut punch is unintentional, but it hurts all the same. In the heat of their tumultuous relationship, it was so easy to paint him as the villain in her mind, absolving herself of any guilt for her side of the relationship, since he was so obviously in the wrong for things like his infidelity and stealing her diary. But when she's honest with herself, in retrospect, she recognizes that, despite these behaviors, she nonetheless wielded the power to hurt him, by her constantly keeping him at arm's length, by pushing him away every time he let himself be vulnerable.

She reaches out and takes his hand. "Well, um, you deserve that. You really do. I hope you know that."

"Thank you."

He smiles, looking down at their joined hands, and laces their fingers together. Exhaling deeply, she rests her head against his shoulder and leaves it there for the remainder of the episode. The way Nathaniel traces his thumb across the back of her hand in an infinity-like pattern makes her feel gooey and warm and relaxed.

Amanda is eliminated during the rose ceremony at the episode's conclusion.

When the credits begin to roll, Rebecca lifts her head from its resting place to see Nathaniel lightly dozing, his head leaning against the back of the couch. She tries to untangle her fingers from his as discreetly as she can, but it rouses him and his eyes flutter open as he takes in a deep breath.

"Sorry," he mumbles, "I must have fallen asleep. What happened?"

"Amanda's gone."

"Figured," he says, rubbing the corner of his eye, "Well, I guess I should go."

They both stand and she says, "Get some sleep. You've been working too hard between MountainTop and all those pro bono cases."

"I'm fine. I can handle it," he says, dismissing her concern, as they walk to the door. "Until next week, then," he says, bending down and planting a kiss on the cheek, as has become their ritual, "or tomorrow, if I need coffee."

"You aren't coming to my birthday party Saturday?"

He furrows his brow and she quickly ascertains he doesn't know about the party.

"The girls didn't invite you?"

"I guess my invite got lost in the mail," he says, shrugging.

"Well, you're invited."

"I don't want to crash -"

"It's a party for _me_, you are my friend, and I am inviting you. It's at Home Base at seven. It's gonna be fun. Everyone will be there."

"Am I part of everyone now?"

"You are."

"Then I'll be there."

Rebecca can't help the goofy grin that spreads across her face. "OK. I'll see you there."

"OK," he says, fidgeting, as if realizing he's been lingering in the doorway too long, drawing out the farewell. "Bye," he whispers and leans down, pecking her cheek again. "Sorry, I already -"

"No, it's fine," she giggles.

"Bye. For real now."

"Bye, Nathaniel."


	5. Number One Fan

**Part Two: Love's Not a Game (Second Reprise)**

**April 18, 2020**

Home Base hums with activity on the evening of Rebecca's birthday party. When Nathaniel opens the door, he feels like he's stepped right into a hive of buzzing worker bees. Heather is polishing wine glasses and placing them in a meticulous row on the bar. Valencia pins up a _Happy Birthday_ banner above a door frame while Beth holds a ladder steady for her. Josh is set up in a corner, flanked on either side by speakers, fiddling with his laptop while testing a microphone. Greg is placing a tray of food on a fold-out catering table. The only person missing is the birthday girl herself.

Nathaniel's nerves are shot to hell. Not only is he showing up without an invitation - making him feel more like a party crasher than a wanted guest - but he also hasn't exactly been welcomed with open arms since his return from Guatemala. He's self-aware enough to know he was never an integral cog in the West Covina machine, but he had hoped White Josh, or, hell, even Greg, would make more of an effort to reconnect with him. Despite the ill-fated, three-date scheme that pitted the two against one another, he always liked Greg as a person and thought the feeling was mutual. But maybe he was wrong.

At this juncture, Rebecca is his only saving grace in this tangled web of a social network. Everyone in town loves her with such an unrivaled fierceness, he hopes his friendship with her can ingratiate him back into the group. She's his human credential. She's the one concrete thing he can point to as evidence he must be doing something right. That he's changed for the better. If she can see that spark within him, after all they've been through and everything he's done, then hopefully everyone else can see it too.

After Valencia dismounts safely from the ladder, she spots Nathaniel from across the room. Her expression turns surprised, then curious, but she shifts back to cool detachment mode quickly and approaches him with a forced smile.

"Hi there. Welcome to the party," she greets, in an uncharacteristically high voice, feigning cordiality.

"Rebecca invited me," he blurts out, anxious under her razor-sharp scrutiny.

"Of course she did. And what is that?" she asks, her eyes dropping to the bouquet of pale yellow roses wrapped in burlap in his hands.

"My gift."

"We said no gifts. On the invitation," she says, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Thankfully for Nathaniel, Beth comes to his rescue just in time, placing both her hands on Valencia's shoulders and squeezing. "Let's go easy on this one. He spent a year shoveling monkey poop. He's done enough penance, don't you think?"

"I guess," Valencia concedes with a sigh, rolling her shoulders. She raises an eyebrow at him, wheels turning in her head. "Since you're here, make yourself useful. Why don't you go help Greg put out the rest of the food?"

Not waiting for a response, she brusquely walks past him, her sky-high black heels clicking menacingly against the tile. Beth gives Nathaniel a half-shrug and follows Valencia over to Josh's table. Moments later, upbeat pop music fills the air and the volume skips up and down as he finds the right balance to appease Valencia.

Nathaniel sets his flowers and accompanying card down at a booth and walks over to Greg, as instructed, not wanting to earn any further ire from Valencia or anyone else in the room. Greg's busy arranging a spread with a variety of hors d'oeuvres - grilled tomato crostinis, a heaping platter of antipasto, and fried ricotta balls.

"Hey Greg. Wow, this is impressive. All from Serrano's?"

He looks up and says, "Oh hey, thanks. Yep, all from the restaurant."

A good start. Greg seems neither pleased or displeased to see him. Perhaps he's simply too busy to care, but, either way, he'll take it.

"Need any help?" he offers.

"Actually, if you could grab the salad from the fridge in the back, that would be great. Thanks."

"Sure," he replies, relieved he can keep busy until Rebecca arrives at the party.

The sight of the back room at Home Base is all too familiar, a small corner of the restaurant that's frozen in time, spared from Heather's numerous redesigns. It unwittingly transports him back to all the times he and Rebecca discreetly met in this very spot. He's reminded of all the times he kissed her here. Made love to her. All the times he cheated here, making mistake after deliberate mistake. In the corner, there's the same old desk that creaks under the weight of two people. To the right, the same old metal shelving that wobbles under the slightest provocation.

(In the heat of a moment, Rebecca once pushed him forcefully up against the shelves, causing a corner to jut painfully into his back. The whole structure rocked from their sexual inertia and a dart board fell down from a high shelf, just barely missing their heads. Rebecca's face was plastered dead center over the bullseye, her image freckled with a million tiny pinpoints. Her hurried explanation as she kicked it away did nothing but confuse him. But there was never any time for talking anyway, and his notion of Greg then was only some faraway, abstract concept of a person.)

The memories of the affair are bittersweet and stir up a confusing cocktail of emotion. Guilt is always at the forefront these days when he remembers that time. Shame. Even some embarrassment. Yet, he can't find it in his heart to completely regret it. No matter how many times they hurt each other, she shaped his life in ways that will never allow him to regret knowing her. Loving her.

He blinks hard, pushing those memories as far back as he can, and beelines for the industrial-size fridge against the far wall. On the middle shelf he finds the chilled salad, which is jam-packed with radicchio, onions, tomatoes, pepperoncinis . . . and olives.

A fuckton of olives.

He wrestles with whether or not to tell Greg about her new-found distaste for them. The last thing he wants is Greg to think he's criticizing his food, which he knows is Greg's life blood. (And it certainly won't help his mission to rekindle their friendship.) On the other hand, Rebecca will no doubt loudly voice her opinion, which would likely ruffle Greg's feathers even more. It would be easy enough to pick out the olives before serving now, as they're all grouped in one quadrant of the bowl.

Good lord, he thinks, it's a salad not a nuclear missile crisis.

Shaking his head at his own ridiculous overanalysis, he emerges from the back room and sets the large bowl down in the only open spot left on the table.

"Thanks," Greg says, off-hand, while he places tented title cards in front of each dish.

"Yeah. Um . . ." Nathaniel says, scratching at the back of his neck and mustering his most casual, not-a-big-deal voice, "Rebecca doesn't like olives. Just thought you may want to know."

Greg stops what he's doing. "What are you talking about? Yes she does."

Nathaniel shifts uncomfortably, instantly regretting his decision to say something. "It's recent, I think. Her dislike."

Greg crosses his arms in front of his chest, defensive. "Listen, I know what you're doing. I know you've been hanging out with Rebecca, OK? I heard. You don't have to try to assert your dominance or whatever you're doing. And I know she likes olives."

Nathaniel holds up his hands in surrender and mutters, "Sorry," and backs away, wondering how he managed to completely blow it in under five minutes.

At that moment, Rebecca and Paula arrive and all the guests clap and _wooo_ at her arrival. Rebecca floats around the room, upbeat and animated, gorgeous in an emerald green floral-print dress, thanking people for coming and blessing them with crushing hugs.

In all the hubbub, Nathaniel spots White Josh at the bar nursing a beer. Given Josh's hot-and-cold (though mostly cold) relationship with Rebecca, Nathaniel wasn't sure if he would be in attendance. He's relieved he'll have at least one friend at the party aside from Rebecca, who will likely be preoccupied all night.

"Hey," Nathaniel says. He waves at the bartender and points to White Josh's beer to indicate he wants the same.

"Heeey," White Josh replies. Nathaniel senses he's not as happy to see him as he had hoped.

"Wasn't sure if you'd be here."

"Since I'm friends with Greg and Valencia, I usually get a de facto invite. I didn't think you'd be here either, honestly."

"Rebecca invited me."

"Ah."

The bartender slides Nathaniel a beer and he takes a nervous sip.

After a tense beat, White Josh asks, "So what's up with you two?"

"Me and Rebecca?"

"I heard you've been spending a lot of time together. Watching _The Bachelor_? What's that about?"

"Rebecca and I are just friends."

"With benefits?"

"No benefits."

White Josh takes a swig from his beer, contemplating this. "Yeah, I'm not buying it."

"Believe it or don't. It's the truth."

"So this is your new angle then?"

"No, no angle."

"Come on, dude."

"Is it so hard to believe I want to be friends with her? That I've changed? And it's not like I have many friends these days. I've tried reaching out to you and Greg, but neither of you seem eager to hang out."

White Josh's eyes drop to his beer, guilty.

"What?"

"OK, I'll level with you," White Josh begins, and Nathaniel braces himself for the inevitable judgement to follow. "Greg still has feelings for Rebecca. Somehow. I swear to god, I'll never understand all of you," he jokes. "But we - all the people at this party - are Team Greg. Everyone wants them to finally figure out their shit and get back together. Which puts me in an awkward position since Greg thinks you're trying to make a move or something. And you know I've been friends with him forever, so I gotta back him up."

Nathaniel's disappointed by the admission, but it certainly explains a lot. He clears his throat. "Oh. Well, like I said, we're just friends. She's free to date whoever she wants. Greg or anyone else. Even if I _was_ interested, I'm not competing anymore. I'm done with that. And anyway, I've been going on dates myself. Non-Rebecca dates."

"Really?" White Josh asks with genuine surprise.

"Yeah, so everyone can stop worrying. I'm _not_ making a move. Please spread the word."

White Josh nods. "Alright then," he says, satisfied, like he finally believes what he's hearing, "Cheers to that."

The two touch the necks of their beer bottles together in solidarity.

Moments later, Nathaniel notices Greg chatting up Rebecca nearby. He steers her to the catering table, a hand on the small of her back, and gives her a rousing tour of all the food he's prepared. She clasps her hands together in delight and makes a big show of _oohing_ and _awwing_ as he presents each dish. When he's finished, she thanks him profusely, clutching his bicep with both hands. Greg beams at her reaction. The only time he seems to have any genuine, unironic enthusiasm about anything is when it comes to his restaurant, so Nathaniel can only imagine how it must feel to have Rebecca fawn all over his food. It makes him feel weirdly happy on his behalf.

That is, until Greg fixes her a plate, piling it high, and she stops him just before the salad, exclaiming, "Wait! I'm off olives. They're just - blergh - gross to me right now."

As Rebecca launches into her pet theory about her new medication altering her fickle taste buds, Greg's eyes go wide and he glances up in Nathaniel's direction. Before they can make eye contact, Nathaniel pretends there's something fascinating to see at the bottom of his beer bottle.

With the tension relieved between White Josh and Nathaniel vis-à-vis the Greg situation, the two spend the next hour shooting the shit and people watching. Partygoers come and go, taking advantage of Heather's generous donation of an open bar for the night. (Rebecca, in particular, seems to pop up with ever-increasing frequency.) And there's plenty to watch on the impromptu dance floor that has been forged in front of Josh's DJ station.

Paula, in stark contrast to the rest of the crowd, remains stone cold sober. When she approaches Nathaniel on his barstool perch, he can tell her visit is for business, not pleasure.

"Hey, can I interrupt for a sec? It's about Melissa's case."

"Of course," he says and excuses himself from his conversation with White Josh. He leads Paula over to the booth where he previously stashed his gift.

"Those are nice," she comments, as an aside, but is too focused on the case to dwell on it. "I have good news. No, great news." She smiles slyly, reveling in the build up.

"What is it?"

"We're getting the closed circuit TV footage from the jewelry store! Finally," she says, her entire demeanor completely transforming into excitement.

"We've been trying to get those files since before I left for my sabbatical," he replies, shocked.

"I know!" she exclaims, "Melissa has always maintained her innocence and this footage will exonerate her. I'm sure of it. Justice, at last, will prevail."

"That's incredible news."

"What's incredible news?" Rebecca asks, appearing at the table, swaying slightly from the amount of alcohol she's imbibed.

Rebecca hops into Nathaniel's side of the booth, forcing him to scoot over to make room. Paula gives her the update and Rebecca reacts with similar fervor, "Yes! Let's get her out of the slammer! That sentencing was hot baloney anyway, regardless of whether she was guilty or not."

"Hot baloney?" Nathaniel echos.

"But, more importantly, I have a very pressing question for both of you," Rebecca says, leaning over the table conspiratorially, putting both her hands flat on the surface.

"What?" Paula prompts.

"Will it be Jenna or Brooke? Brooke or Jenna? Who will get the final rose? Two weeks until we find out."

Nathaniel expects Paula to be confused or laugh off the frivolity of the question, but she responds with a surprising amount of seriousness. "Brooke, obviously."

"Interesting," Rebecca says, stroking her chin, acting as if this is a topic of utmost solemnity, "Why?"

"She's the underdog," Paula says, in a _duh_ tone of voice. "Have you never seen a rom-com?!"

Nathaniel and Rebecca glance at each other and Nathaniel shrugs, "I've dabbled."

Paula continues, "Jenna is the blonde, hot, rich, popular girl in school and Brooke is the quiet, humble, brunette nerd who, well, also looks pretty hot after a makeover. But, in the end, the underdog always overcomes and gets the guy. Or girl. Sure, Kyle and Jenna have chemistry, like off-the-charts chemistry, but that's all superficial. Brooke is the one who can go the distance."

For reasons he can't articulate, her assessment makes his chest feel tight.

"Proctor out," Paula says, stands from the booth, and opens her hand like she's dropping a microphone before she walks away.

"She's probably right," Rebecca mutters.

"You think so?"

"Are those for me?" Rebecca asks, suddenly changing topics and reaching for the bouquet.

He slides them across the table into her hands and says, "Yeah. I missed the memo on the no-gifts rule. They're from my mom's garden."

"Wow, these are beautiful," she coos, bringing the flowers to her nose and inhaling.

"_Will you accept this rose?_ Or roses, plural? That was going to be my joke."

She chuckles. "I will accept these roses. Thank you. I love them."

"I also got you this," he says, placing a white envelope into her hands. "I hope this redeems me for the Marty Macaroon mix-up."

She tears open the card with vigor to reveal two tickets to _Dear Evan Hansen_. Orchestra center section at the Ahmanson Theatre.

"Oh my god, Nathaniel!" she squeals, pressing the tickets to her chest, her mouth gaping open. "This is so amazing. And thoughtful. Screw the no-gifts rule," she gushes.

She throws her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He hugs her back and his senses are pleasantly assaulted by the downy softness of her hair against his face, the hint of floral perfume splashed on her skin. Her fingers slide through the short hairs on the back of his neck, sending tiny jolts up his scalp.

When he opens his eyes, most of the restaurant is looking in their direction, probably from Rebecca's boisterous, high-pitched reaction, so he quickly pulls away.

"Aren't you excited?" she asks.

"Oh, this is a gift, so you can take whoever you want."

"Don't you want to go? You love the sad teenager music," she says, with a teasing sparkle in her eyes.

He laughs, "Maybe."

"So you'll come with me then?"

"If that's what you want."

"Alright you party animals," Josh says in a booming voice over the speakers, interrupting their conversation, "it's time for the birthday girl to have her cake and eat it too!"

The lights dim and Heather emerges from the back room with a sheet cake full of candles, presumably thirty-one in total, in her arms. The cake has white frosting with _Happy Birthday, Rebecca_ scripted in red cursive and a microphone in black icing in one corner with little music notes around it.

Rebecca leaps up from the booth and mouths _thank you_ to Nathaniel before she skips to the other side of the room. He follows a few paces behind.

In the middle of the restaurant, Heather holds out the cake to Rebecca and everyone surrounds the two, singing _Happy Birthday_ with much gusto, equal parts festive joviality and alcohol. For a brief moment during the song, Rebecca's brow furrows as if she's spotted something that troubles her. But she recovers quickly, shaking it off, and smiles broadly for the rest of the song. She blows out the candles in one long whoosh and the room goes dark until Valencia flips the light switch back on and everyone applauds.

Paula and Heather make quick work of slicing up and distributing the cake, which is chocolate with strawberry filling. Nathaniel decides to skip the inevitable back-and-forth between he and Rebecca about eating a slice and takes a piece for himself. When she looks in his direction from a few feet away, he holds up his plate to show her he's eating it and she shoots him a cheshire grin in return.

With everyone eating and the music turned down, the room quiets noticeably, and Nathaniel can't help but overhear Rebecca asking Greg nearby, "What's with you not singing _Happy Birthday_?"

"Oh, you know, the whole singing-happy-birthday thing is so cringey and awkward."

Rebecca rolls her eyes and takes a huge bite of cake.

"Rebecca, come on, you know I hate stuff like that. It's so performative and perfunctory. Nobody wants to be doing it."

She swallows. "You're right. No one does. But you do it for the person whose birthday it is. It's not for _you_."

Greg sighs. "I'm sorry, OK? It's not personal to you. I don't sing for anyone."

She shakes her head, dismayed, and thrusts her empty plate at him to discard. She stomps to the bar, leaving Greg behind, and demands a double shot of tequila. The bartender obeys, placing an elongated shot glass with a lime wedge in front of her. She slams the shot, throwing her head back dramatically, then sucks on the lime, squinting from the sourness of it.

Straightening up and pitching her shoulders back, she marches up to Josh's booth and grabs the microphone out of his hands. She says something into Josh's ear and he nods in acknowledgement and clicks around on his laptop.

"Hi errveryone," Rebecca slurs into the mic, "Thank you all for coming to this very special occasion. My birthday party." A few people whoop in response. She grips the mic hard in both hands. "Thank you. And, for my birrrthday, what I need right now is my three main bitches up here with me to sing a song."

Paula is already shaking her head _no_, decidedly too sober for whatever Rebecca has planned. Valencia and Heather exchange nervous glances.

Suddenly the intro of _Hold On_ by Wilson Phillips starts streaming out of the speakers and Josh gives Rebecca a thumbs up. Her eyes light up at the sound of the music and she starts waving wildly for the women to join her.

"Come on!" she stage whispers, as if the microphone isn't projecting her voice, bouncing it off of every wall.

Heather is the first to acquiesce with a blasé shrug, tugging on Valencia's forearm to drag her along. They take a spot on either side of Rebecca and lean in, hesitant, toward the mic. The three sing the first verse together - of course they all know all the lyrics - and Rebecca's eyes keep darting to Paula, beckoning her. As the song progresses, Heather and Valencia get more and more into it, becoming more confident in their singing.

Just before the chorus, Paula rushes up to the front and says, "OK. Fine. Only because this is a kick ass song."

Then, the signature drumbeat kicks in and all four of them yell-sing the chorus enthusiastically into the mic, not one of them on-pitch, completely giving themselves over to the moment, "_Some day somebody's gonna make you want to turn around and say goodbye! Until then, baby, are you gonna let them hold you down and make you cry?!_" All four of them look at each other with huge smiles and Rebecca's giggling so much she can barely get out the lyrics.

The rest of the guests laugh and clap and sing along themselves, the joy emanating from the four of them completely contagious. Nathaniel even catches Greg smiling down at his beer, though his face is also slightly pained at the cacophony of their voices.

When the song ends, everyone hoots and hollers and Rebecca throws her arms into the air in triumph. It reminds Nathaniel of every rehearsal for the Ellison revue they shared, how she exuded pure happiness every time she sang, and how it made him realize he needed to pursue his own passions as well.

The song is the apex of the party - nothing can top it - and the celebration slowly dies down over the next hour. Heather eventually shoos everyone out with, "Free ride is officially over. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here. Unless you want to help clean, then you can stay here."

The party consequently spills out into the parking lot, which is illuminated with sparse stadium-style lighting that's hazy with age. Valencia, Beth, Paula, Rebecca, Greg, and Nathaniel all stroll to their cars together at a leisurely pace, not quite ready for the night to end.

"All I have to say," Valencia says to the group, "is no karaoke or any other spontaneous singing at my wedding."

Rebecca smirks at that as she walks alongside Paula, unsteady in her heeled boots, cradling her yellow roses in one arm like a newborn baby.

"You listening, Rebecca? I'm going to need a verbal confirmation," Valencia prods.

"No singing. Got it," she replies. She gives a little scowl at her insistence.

"Who's driving Rebecca home?" Greg asks, eyeing her gait.

Paula fishes her keys out of her purse. "That would be me," she says.

"Good. Well, this is me," Greg says, stopping in front of his car. Rebecca slows down with him while the rest of the group continues walking.

Greg moves his arms an infinitesimal amount, like he wants to hug her, but stops when his eyes drop to the roses in her arms. Nathaniel's not sure if it's the logistical challenge of hugging with the flowers between them or if it's the gift itself that's causing him to hesitate. (He's kicking himself now for unintentionally disobeying the no-gift rule.) Instead, Greg simply says, "Happy Birthday, Rebecca. Hope you had a good night," and gets into his car.

Just before they reach Paula and Nathaniel's cars in the last row of the parking lot, Valencia and Beth break off from the group as well. Valencia graces Rebecca with a very European double air kiss goodbye.

"Melissa's case," Paula says to Nathaniel, unlocking her car with her key fob a few feet away, "Talk more this week? Wednesday lunch?"

"Sure," Nathaniel agrees, pointing at her.

Paula opens the driver's side door and settles into the driver's seat and Nathaniel, in a moment of chivalry, opens the passenger side for Rebecca.

But she doesn't get in.

"Nathaniel," she loudly whispers, as if Paula isn't going to hear her through the open door.

"You are so drunk," he says, laughing.

"Nathaniel, I want you to come with me," she says, still whispering.

"Where?"

"To Valencia's wedding. I get a plus one," she says, holding up her pointer finger, "and you are a one." She pokes the finger into his chest.

"Oh," he says, his eyebrows raising, completely taken off-guard by the request. "Um," he stalls, his mind racing, trying to do a quick mental calculation as to whether it's a wise idea.

Rebecca grabs his hand. "Come on," she whines, "Be my prince charming for a night. I know for a fact you like to dance, drink champagne, and wear a tux. So basically you're the perfect date."

He looks over at Valencia and Beth getting into their car. Valencia, sensing his eyes on her, squints back at him with skepticism. He wonders if she overheard any of their back-and-forth.

"I don't think Valencia is my biggest fan," he replies, wary.

"Hey," she says, squeezing his hand to snap his attention back to her, "I'm your biggest fan so she'll be your biggest fan because I'm her fan and she's my fan. And we're all fans of each other. And that's show biz, kid."

"Huh?"

"Just say yes! It'll be fun," she insists, pouting her lips.

He sighs. She gazes up at him with so much hope, her whole body humming with alcohol-fueled giddiness, and he's lost. "Yes. If Valencia says it's OK."

She grins, satisfied by his answer.

She's still firmly holding his hand, her eyes wild and beautiful in the glow of the overhead lights. For a brief moment he imagines her grabbing his neck and kissing him how she always used to, in that intense, all-encompassing way.

Sometimes these moments still happen, when the air is electric between them, and he has a stray intrusive thought about how things might go if they weren't _just_ _friends_. He suspects she feels it too, because he catches how her eyes flit down to his mouth only to quickly return back up to his eyes.

A refrain of _off-the-charts chemistry_ reverberates in his mind.

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with effort, and her eyes track the movement.

"Well, happy birthday," he murmurs and leans down to drop a kiss to her cheek. As he gets close, her hand trails up to caress his forearm, the pads of her fingers gently dancing over his skin. She hikes herself up on her tiptoes so the kiss lingers for a prolonged moment while they're cheek-to-cheek, her breath puffing warm against his ear.

"Let's go," Paula says from inside the car, jolting the moment loose. They break away from each other as if they were caught engaging in some illicit activity, not a chaste cheek kiss goodbye.

Rebecca flops down in her car seat and Nathaniel helps her click the seatbelt into place.

"Thanks. She's harder to wrangle when she's drunk," Paula jokes.

He shuts the door and backs away from the car so Paula can pull out of the spot. As she drives away, Rebecca gives him a little wave through the window and he raises a farewell hand back. He's already worried about the consequences of accepting the invitation, replaying his talk with White Josh in his head, wondering whether he's inadvertently doused accelerant on the fire of the situation.

When will he learn?


	6. Ask Me

**April 27, 2020**

"Oooh, don't stop," Rebecca moans, arching her back off the couch.

"Feel good?"

She sighs, "Yeah, right there. A little harder."

"Like this?"

Nathaniel applies more pressure right where she's aching for it. She tips her head back and her toes curl in pleasure.

"You're sooo good at this," she croons.

"Am I?" he asks, coy, gleaning his own satisfaction from watching her squirm.

"Why did you keep this talent a secret from me?"

"You never asked," he replies, shooting her a devilish grin.

He digs his thumb deeper into the ball of her foot and she groans, "I am never wearing heels to work ever again. It's not like working behind a desk. I'm on my feet all day long."

Rebecca's always been skeptical of reflexology, but he may make her a believer. Every time his fingers find a new spot to massage, it sends little pleasure signals throughout her body, from the tip of her scalp down to...other places.

So, on second thought, maybe she's willing to suffer through some high-heeled shifts at Rebetzel's if she's guaranteed the world's most arousing foot massage at the end of it.

"I'm convinced a man invented them," she adds.

He switches to her other foot and kneads at her arch, causing a new rash of goosebumps to spread like wildfire up her arm. She's draped luxuriously across the full length of the couch with her feet propped up in Nathaniel's lap, relegating him to a single cushion on the opposite end. The commercials on TV drone on in the background. An ad for allergy medication. A thirty-second promo for the newest crime procedural. But all she can register is his fingers, strong and deft, manipulating her muscles in ways that feel downright sinful.

"Did you see what I bought?" she asks and points over her shoulder to the keyboard in the dining area. On its stand sits a bright blue paperback book, _Dear Evan Hansen: Easy Piano Selections_. "Not only did you give me the best birthday gift ever, but it has also inspired me to practice more. Once I learn the parts, maybe you can sing along while I play," she suggests, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

"I hope you're joking," he chuckles.

"We could perform a song at the next open mic!"

"Oh god no," he scoffs.

Rebecca pouts her lips.

"Oh, here we go," he says when _The Bachelor_ returns from the break. He picks up the remote control from where it's docked on the arm of the couch and turns up the volume.

For reasons she can't quite pinpoint, the season finale has Nathaniel set on edge. Prior to the foot massage, he couldn't keep his hands still. He drummed his fingers restlessly against his thighs, passed the remote back and forth between his hands, and compulsively swirled the wine around in his glass. Finally, she couldn't take the fidgeting anymore and plopped her feet into his lap in an attempt at distraction. But even now, he seems too riveted by the outcome of the show to completely disengage.

"Here's the moment of truth," Rebecca says, "Whoever gets out of the limo first is getting dumped."

"How do you know?"

"Because they can't end the show with a breakup. They have to end it with the happily ever after. Duh."

The first camera shot is a black stretch limo slowing to a stop. Cut to an aerial shot of the beach where Kyle is waiting under a trellis next to a podium with a single red rose atop its surface. He's dressed in a navy suit and striped tie, his forehead perspiring from a fatal combination of heat, humidity, and nerves. His stance is wider than normal and his clasped hands hang down loose in front of his lap. Back at the limo, the door opens and a foot encased in a strappy silver stiletto emerges from the door.

Nathaniel sucks in a breath and holds it. Much to Rebecca's disappointment, he stops rubbing her feet and rests his hands so they engulf her ankles.

The camera pans up to show a flowing pale yellow dress that cinches at the waist. A few more inches reveal long, curled blonde hair.

Jenna.

Her face is heartbreakingly confident, full of hope and excitement for what she thinks will be a romantic proposal.

Nathaniel sharply exhales out his nose. Momentarily breaking his focus on the screen, his eyes dart back down to her feet and he resumes his ministrations, applying even harder pressure than before.

"Jenna, this whole journey has been amazing. We've had so much fun with you. And obviously there's chemistry between us. Lots of it."

Jenna beams.

Knowing she's about to get her heart broken makes his speech all the more painful to watch, yet neither Rebecca nor Nathaniel can tear their eyes away.

"But I can't get down on one knee today," Kyle continues, "There's someone I have stronger feelings for and I have a deeper connection with her. I'm so sorry."

Cut to Jenna's face falling, crumbling.

"But please know I've cherished our time together. I really have."

In that moment, it hits Rebecca like the softball that hit her between the eyes in seventh grade gym class why Nathaniel has been Jenna's one-man cheerleading squad the entire season. Up until this point, she had assumed it was because Jenna is so quintessentially his type. Or, at least, she's Rebecca's perception of his type based on the endless parade of leggy blondes he's shown her on _Stranger Arranger_.

But it's not the attraction. It's not her beauty or her charm or her quick wit. It's not even that she and Kyle have an undeniable spark between them.

It's because he _is_ Jenna.

She's a lethal combination of smart and sexy. Lithe and tall. Born into a wealthy West Coast family. She's practically his female doppelgänger.

What Rebecca has gathered from her own Dian Fossey style behavioral observations is that Nathaniel has been striking out in the love department lately. Though, she suspects his difficulties are more about his own pickiness and high standards than rejection. Still, watching his proxy get dumped on national TV can't be encouraging. Despite his efforts to mask his disappointment over the string of failed dates, acting performatively blasé about it most of the time, she can tell he longs for his own happy ending just as much as anyone.

"We don't have to watch the rest of this," she says, breaking the silence, "We know how it ends."

He swallows and fixes his face into a neutral expression. "Don't you want to see your happily ever after? Or, theirs, I mean."

Her happily ever after.

Not long ago, she would have considered this episodic love story a big ol' neon sign from the universe. She's always been susceptible to all kinds of magical thinking and old habits die hard. Or not at all. Believing in signs and destiny and _meant to be_ (not-to-mention columns) are practically part of her biological makeup.

If she had watched this episode after her three dates, would she have made a different choice, songwriting be damned? Suddenly it all comes into stark focus, the show practically screaming at her through its millions of pixels: _Choose Greg!_

Because you don't choose a Jenna. Privileged, pretty, perfect-on-paper Jenna is the obstacle in the rom-com, not the end game.

And you don't choose a Nathaniel.

He's the Daniel Cleaver. The Mr. Big. The Conrad Birdie. The freaking Benjamin Coffin the third. He's every rich, handsome, womanizer asshole the lead actress has to kick to the curb in order to discover her true love.

Rebecca glances over at him and he's blankly staring at the coffee table, lost in thought. Every square inch where their bodies connect, he's pulled taut with tension. His hands. His legs. Even his jaw is stiff.

"I'm going to get some more wine," he says with no preamble, lifting both her ankles from his lap and moving them to the side so he can stand up, "Want some?"

"Sure, thanks," she replies and hands him her own glass.

Rebecca sits up, swerving around to watch him, tucking one leg underneath her.

"Sorry about Jenna," she says as he pours the wine, "I know you liked her."

He shrugs, non-committal.

"You know, she may become _The Bachelorette_," she offers as consolation, "Then you can watch twenty-five guys fall all over themselves for her."

Nathaniel tilts his head to the side in confusion as he's unfamiliar with the show's machinations. "Huh," he says, somewhat buoyed by the notion.

Valencia and Beth's wedding invitation, which is pinned onto Rebecca's fridge with a magnet, catches his eye. Valencia's pulled out all the stops for the wedding and even managed to make the invitation a first-class affair, with elegant scripted gold lettering.

He leans in to study it and says, "I wanted to tell you I've been practicing my funk face for the wedding." He turns toward her and bites his lower lip, swiveling his hips while carefully balancing his wine glass to avoid spilling. "Jealous of these moves?" he jokes and attempts a body roll that ends up disjointed and awkward.

She smiles with faint appreciation but doesn't laugh.

"What's wrong?" he asks, "You look upset."

"There's something I need to talk to you about. About the wedding," she says, solemnly, rising from the couch and joining him in the kitchen. She faces him from the opposite side of the kitchen island, gripping the counter's edge with both hands.

Time to bite the bullet. Rip the band-aid off, Rebecca.

"Greg asked me to go with him to the wedding. As a real date. A date-date. A romantic-type date."

Nathaniel's eyes drop and he says softly, "Oh."

She had expected at least a hint of surprise at the news, but he doesn't seem the least bit shocked. Only disappointed.

"When did this happen?" he asks.

"Yesterday. He called me. But I didn't give him an answer yet. I wanted to talk to you first."

"Did he know that we were -"

"No. At least, I don't think so. I highly doubt he would have asked if he did."

He nods in agreement. "Well, it's okay. I understand. You should go with him."

His reaction, or rather non-reaction, frustrates the hell out of her. Not that she wanted an argument or to hurt him, but his resignation and apathy rattle her in a way she didn't anticipate.

"You don't seem very surprised by this at all," she says.

Nathaniel says nothing for a beat and she can tell he's holding something back.

"What? What is it?" she prods, "Just say it."

"White Josh told me that Greg still likes you. At your birthday party."

Stunned, she takes an involuntary step back away from the counter and wonders at how many other people knew about this little revelation before she did. She did have an inkling Greg may have some lingering feelings, but she didn't think he was the type to tell other people while leaving her in the dark.

For the first time in their new-found friendship, she feels a small sting of betrayal. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I'm not involved in your love life. It's none of my business."

Her forehead wrinkles with consternation. "What? You tell me about your dates," she counters.

"That's different."

"How is that different?"

"Because they're strangers. You don't know them. They're not -"

On the TV screen across the room, over Rebecca's shoulder, Kyle is on one knee proposing to Brooke. Nathaniel's eyes drop, downcast, into his wine glass and he licks his lips. A series of microexpressions flash across his face and she catches them all in rapid succession - hurt to confusion to defeat, sticking the final dismount to anger.

"Just go with Greg," Nathaniel says, annoyance imbued in each word, "I don't even know why we're bothering to talk about this. You're just going to do whatever you want anyway."

"So you don't care then," she says as more of a statement than a question.

"Do you want me to care?"

Rebecca opens her mouth to speak but then hesitates. Does she?

"Wow," Nathaniel exhales, shaking his head, "You are unbelievable, you know that?"

"What?"

"You don't see what you're doing?"

"What am I doing?"

"You are pitting Greg and I against each other."

"No, no, I am _not_ doing that," she says, her voice trailing up so high she's not fooling anyone, even herself.

"Is it so ingrained in you that you don't even realize you're doing it?"

He crosses his arms protectively in front of him, guarding his chest. This conversation has clearly struck a chord - a dissonant one - within him.

Rebecca's hackles are raising, an angry heat blooming in her breast. Her heartbeat hammers quick and hard beneath her skin, threatening to burst right out of her chest. The words begin deep in her gut and bubble up and out of her, boiling over in an indignant eruption. "Why are you being such a self-righteous jerk right now?"

Nathaniel's mouth falls open. Finally, there's the shock she wanted.

But she's not the only one in this room well-versed in lashing out.

His voice borders on hoarse with the heft of his emotions, "_I'm_ the jerk in this situation? I'm the jerk. I have been nothing but a good friend to you since I've been back. And now, you want me to fight for your attention? I am not doing that. Not as a friend. Not as anything else. So go to the wedding with Greg and have a great time. Let him fall in love with you all over again so when the moment comes that he lets his guard down, you can reject him and break his fucking heart. You're good at that."

All the air zaps straight out of her lungs like she's suddenly been vacuum sealed. The full weight of his words sit heavy in her chest and she can feel hot tears sting at the back of her eyes. He knows just how to hurt her and what buttons to press, but what she hates even more is how there's a kernel of truth in those words she doesn't want to face.

It takes mere seconds for her defensiveness switch to flip on. When she's attacked, her body goes into survival mode. If someone tries to knock you down, knock them down even harder.

Fight and/or flight. Usually in that order.

"You're one to make judgments about my relationships, Nathaniel. Need I remind you of the eight months you spent cheating on your girlfriend because you can't keep your dick in your pants? And now that you're single, you're running around, fucking anything with a vagina and a heartbeat. You may need to move back to L.A. soon because you've already fucked everyone here."

He tries to interrupt, "I'm not hav-"

But she's not even close to ready to let him respond and jumps in, "And, guess what, they don't love you. And, just like Mona, you will never love them because you will never love anyone more than your own reflection."

Her eyes bug out and she's panting with fury as she grips the counter with both hands, her knuckles turning white. She waits for him to return her diatribe with the full force of his own anger. He's done it before and she's ready for it.

But instead, he simply nods, slow and measured. "Wow," he whispers, more to himself than to her.

His quiet sadness overlayed with hurt is truly worse than any verbal assault he could have committed. Immediately regret sets in, gnawing away at her insides.

"OK then," he says, with finality, like he's made a decision. He rounds the counter and walks past her, heading straight for the front door.

She whips around and watches him walk away from her and it triggers the worst combination of physical and emotional impulses. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. She wants to tear her own hair out. But mostly, she wants him to do literally anything else besides leave her right now.

When he reaches for the doorknob, she screws her eyes shut because she cannot stand to watch it happen.

She waits for the inevitable sounds to come. The click of the lock. The twist of the doorknob. The slam of the door.

But none of it comes.

"Rebecca," he murmurs, "look at me."

She opens her eyes. His hand is no longer on the doorknob and he's gazing back at her with so much undeserved compassion it's hard to breathe.

"Ask me," he says, his voice low.

"Ask you what?"

"Ask me to stay. Ask me to stay and fight with you."

"Nathaniel," she whispers and breaks eye contact because it's all too much. The gentleness in his face. The softness in his voice. The way he's pushing her.

She swallows and can barely choke out the words, "Stay. Please. Stay and fight with me."

Nathaniel exhales in relief and takes a few steps toward her. "I don't really want to fight with you."

When he says it, so soft and loving, it's like a balloon of tension, which had been steadily growing larger and larger as they argued, suddenly pops.

"I don't want to fight with you either," she says, a tear escaping from her right eye.

He takes another tentative step toward her and opens his arms and she rushes into them, throwing both of hers around his neck. With her clad only in socks, it's almost impossible to reach him so he bends at the knees, stooping low to be able to scoop her up.

"I'm sorry," she says, pressing her chest hard against him, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"I'm sorry too."

"Don't leave."

"I'm not. I'm not leaving," he murmurs into her hair as he rubs his hands over her back.

And she believes him.

She can't recall a man ever stating it so simple and plain, so matter-of-fact. _I'm not leaving._ They may be the three most comforting words she's ever heard. And it's even more comforting to feel it physically, in the way he's holding her so secure in his arms.

No matter how many mistakes they've made, one thing she's never doubted is the strength and force of his feelings for her. When they first met, she never would have guessed they had that in common. Yet, he loves and hates and cares so deeply it rivals her own emotional intensity.

He's seen every part of her. The bad. The good. The oh-my-god-why-does-anyone-still-talk-to-me. Not to mention, he's certainly seen every part of her physically. There's nothing left to hide. And he's still here. He's not leaving.

"You're right. I was a self-righteous jerk," he says.

She chuckles and hugs him even tighter around his shoulders. "Yeah, but I was too," she admits. She wonders if she could live here, her nose buried in this patch of his neck, for the rest of time.

"I just want you to be happy," he whispers, "OK? Do whatever you want to do."

"I want to go with you," she blurts out, before even consciously realizing it's true.

He pulls away and searches her face. "What?"

She wipes away some residual moisture underneath her eyes. "I think...I think maybe I wanted you to talk me out of it. Out of going with Greg."

Nathaniel's brow furrows in genuine confusion. "Why?"

"There's a lot you don't know about my history with Greg," she says with a sigh, "When he asked me, my first thought was of Jayma's wedding."

"That's Josh's sister?"

"Yeah. Greg and I went together, as a date. I won't get into the details but it was the worst night you could possibly imagine."

Nathaniel raises an eyebrow, signally skepticism. "How bad could it possibly be?"

"Well, let's see. In addition to some pretty standard bad date stuff - he didn't dress appropriately and refused to dance with me - I also had sex with his best friend on top of a classic car after he passed out drunk at the bar. Oh, and he got a DUI. Would you consider that a bad night?"

His eyes widen. "Uh, wow."

"Yeah. Not either of our most shining moments."

He scratches at the side of his head with his pointer finger. "So, uh, you don't want to go with him because of some bad wedding karma?"

"My point is I had this weird, PTSD-style flashback of that night when we talked, and I thought that's what was keeping me from saying yes right away."

"But it's not."

She shakes her head and continues on, processing her feelings extemporaneously out loud, "You know, Greg has always seemed like the healthy choice. He's smart and funny and successful. Real husband material. He takes his recovery seriously. All my friends have literally told me _You're meant to be with Greg_."

"I'm sensing a _but_."

She worries her lower lip with her teeth as she tries to diagnose exactly what the _but_ is.

"The more I think about him and our relationship, the more I think we're just not compatible. Maybe we never were," she says with a hint of sadness.

Saying it out loud for the first time makes it seem so obvious now. And saying it for another person to hear, unleashing it into existence, makes it real to her in a way she didn't want to acknowledge before this.

"When it comes to him, I've always thought more with my head than my heart. My head says it's the right choice, but my heart… Sorry, wow, I am rambling a lot. Is any of this making sense?"

Nathaniel nods, listening closely, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It's such a simple gesture, his signature touch, and yet it never fails to make her melt into a puddle with the way it makes her feel so cherished and so heard. He could do it a million times and its effect on her would never diminish.

"It makes complete sense," he says.

"A year ago, when I distanced myself from you guys, he told me he wouldn't wait. The fact that he hasn't dated anyone and now he's asking me out makes me wonder if he was being truthful back then. I don't know how I feel about that. Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you about this. Is this weird?"

He shakes his head. "It's ok. You can tell me these things."

She reaches out and offers both her hands to him and he gladly takes them. "Thank you for listening," she says, "This is probably going to sound really cheesy, but sometimes I feel like...you really see me."

"I try to," he says, softly.

"Me too."

Rebecca glances at the TV and _After the Final Rose_, the aftershow, has begun. Kyle and Brooke are seated on a couch across from the host. They answer a litany of questions together, all while tightly holding hands and gazing lovingly at each other.

"Want to watch the rest of this?" she asks. She figures they've had enough heaviness for one night. Nothing like some mindless TV to lighten the mood.

He returns to his spot at the end of the couch, but she feels an invisible yet strong magnetic pull to be close to him. She places a throw pillow in his lap and lies her head down on it, tucking her body as flush to his as she can manage. Without wasting a beat, his hand finds the nape of her neck and he tenderly strokes her hair with a rhythmic pulse so steady it eventually lulls her into a light sleep.

In the liminal space between consciousness and sleep, she dreams that they're in her bed, her head resting peacefully against his chest as it puffs up and down with each breath. The vision fills her with an overwhelming sense of peace and solace she never seems to be able to capture during her waking hours.

When it's time for Nathaniel to go home, he rouses her by saying her name and gently rocking her shoulder back and forth. This time, when he walks to the door, she no longer feels the pain of someone abandoning her — only the distant ache of knowing that, unlike her dream, her side of the bed will be empty tonight.

Later, as she drifts off to sleep cuddling Ruth Gator Ginsberg, one leg slung over her plush tail, she imagines it's his t-shirt she's nuzzling instead of the lifeless green stuffing. _Yearning_ is such a Victorian word, entirely too melodramatic for her modern day sensibilities. And yet, it's the only word she can conjure for the pang in her heart from absence.

She burrows her nose further into her inanimate partner and concentrates on clearing her mind of these errant thoughts. She cannot allow herself to dwell on them and all their weighty implications.

Because they've finally cleared the slate and started over in a way she never thought was possible.

Because they're finally real, true friends.

And because you don't choose a Nathaniel.


	7. Be Kind

**May 30, 2020**

"I don't know why we can't just give them cash," Nathaniel says, exasperated, as he trails Rebecca through Nordstrom's Bed, Bath, & Home department.

"Since you're buying — thanks for that, by the way — I want to splurge and get them something fun! Cash is boooring," Rebecca whines.

As they stroll through the displays of flatware and serving dishes and luggage sets, he wonders how any of it is more exciting than receiving cash. Rebecca lured him into this shopping trip under false pretenses by requesting his expertise for an extravagant purchase. Intrigued, he agreed, expecting a trip to a car dealership or a high-end clothing store. Nathaniel, having an eye for the finer things, had no trouble spotting the trademark red bottom of her Louboutin heels and her classic Kate Spade tote when they first met. So it seemed within the realm of possibility that she may be in the market for such a purchase, though these items have been out of her regular rotation for quite some time.

In retrospect, he should have realized Rebecca no longer has the means for luxury purchases with Rebetzel's still struggling to hurdle out of the red, not to mention all the private music lessons. While she may have a history of expensive tastes, those days are long over.

"And even though this is _my_ money, I don't get a say in this?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"Nope," she replies sweetly.

"Don't they have a registry?"

Rebecca ignores him and continues to mosey through the store, undeterred by his objections. As she floats past items with textile elements, be it bedding or towels, she runs her hand over them as if she can find the perfect gift through some kind of kinesthetic clairvoyance.

"Are you coming to my next show?" she asks over her shoulder. She's pretending this is a casual question, not even looking up from browsing when she says it. But her poker face is about as convincing as her vow to give up carbs for Valencia's wedding. He knows she very much cares about her friends' support of her burgeoning passion.

"Of course," he says and he catches her quiet smile at his answer.

Second Friday of every month. He hasn't missed one yet. Her performances are a delightful mélange of original songs and songs she's rewritten the lyrics to, the latter of which tends to be more of a crowd-pleaser. In April, she rewrote the lyrics for _Good Morning, Baltimore_ to _Good Morning, West Covina_, both praising and panning the town in equal measure, which was highly appreciated by the local audience and closed to thunderous applause. (Her quirky and increasingly funny ways of incorporating the extra syllable in West Covina to fit the song's structure only added to the song's charm.) For her first stab at injecting humor in her songwriting, the response blew her away. Add one more weapon to her growing musical arsenal.

His personal favorite show was last month when she performed her rendition of _Etta Mae's Lament_, more than a year overdue, with all the lyrical changes Nathaniel intended to sing before he was cut off. Each time she glanced up from her music, she found his eyes in the crowd, setting off a burst of fireworks in his stomach. Though there were tens of people in the room, he felt like it was a secret performance only for him.

Paula, like Nathaniel, has perfect attendance. The two often sit together at a high-top table, the same spot every week, so they can whisper updates on cases to each other in between acts. Valencia and Heather make sporadic appearances when either of them are in town for the weekend. Greg makes an effort, but Friday nights prove to be almost impossible for a restaurant owner. Still, she plays the crowd like a fiddle, both friends and strangers alike, and Nathaniel wouldn't miss her monthly five minutes of pure happiness for anything.

In between shows, she keeps her works-in-progress to herself. She takes pleasure in the unadulterated, unspoiled reaction from her friends and treats each performance like it's a grand unveiling. (Rebecca loving a big reveal? Who would have thought.) Not creative in the least himself, the idea of her divining songs out of thin air is so completely foreign that he often imagines it as some kind of mysterious magic he cannot touch or fathom.

After silently surveying the merchandise for a few minutes more, her ponytail bouncing behind her, something catches Rebecca's eye and she stops suddenly in her tracks. Nathaniel's inertia propels him forward, almost making him run right into her, but he catches himself by bracing both hands on her shoulders.

"Oh my god," she mutters to herself.

She wriggles out of his grasp toward an end-cap display, showcasing an item he would never buy for himself, let alone give as a gift. Just the thought of having one in his home is so revolting he cannot even entertain it. It's a gift so tacky, so obnoxious, he knows Valencia would absolutely loathe it.

A karaoke machine.

Two speakers with a mounted touch-screen, accompanied by a metallic gold, sparkly wireless microphone.

The gift of torture, he thinks.

Rebecca picks up the mic and flicks a tiny switch, her face lighting up when the speakers begin to hum.

Nathaniel ducks into the adjacent aisle while she's preoccupied, partly to make her laugh when she turns around to see he's disappeared and partly because he can see what's coming from miles away.

"Nathaniel," she says into the mic, misjudging the volume, which sends her voice booming through the store. She reflexively pulls the mic away from her mouth and tries again, much softer this time, "Nathaniel. Paging Nathaniel Plimpton the third. Please report to me."

As he peeks around the corner moments later, revealing himself, he observes her tapping the touch screen, scrolling, scrolling, until she finds a title that sparks a wicked grin. He can't read the text from where he stands, but he can tell from her expression he isn't going to like it.

"Nathaniel, you've left me no choice but to embarrass you," she says into the mic as she pushes on the screen, confirming her selection.

An all-too-familiar guitar arpeggio begins to play, triggering a pit of dread in his stomach.

Oh no. She wouldn't.

He acts fast, marching up to her and putting a hand over the mic, whispering in hushed frustration, "We are not doing this. We're in the middle of a department store."

She jerks the mic away from his hand and sings right on cue, a smirk plastered on her face, "_You are my fire. The one desire. Believe when I say. I want it that way._"

Oh yes. Yes, she would.

"_But we are two worlds apart. Can't reach to your heart. When you say that I want it that way,_" she sings passionately, her free hand forming a fist, as if she's singing to him from the depths of her very soul.

Nathaniel whips his head around and thankfully he sees no one in the immediate vicinity except an elderly woman fingering a comforter nearby who seems oblivious (hopefully hard-of-hearing) a few feet away.

In the short pause between the first verse and the chorus, she says all in one breath, pointing at him, "Come on, Nathaniel, I know you know this one. I bet you had frosted tips in junior high and thought you were Nick Carter!"

He can't help the barking laugh that escapes from his throat at that remark — at how humiliatingly true it is — but he rolls his eyes, pretending he's not amused. She latches on to this hint of enjoyment and grabs his hand, pulling him closer while she energetically sings the chorus, "_Tell me why! Ain't nothing but a heartache. Tell me why! Ain't nothing but a mistake. Tell me why. I never want to hear you say. I want it that way._"

Regardless of how truly embarrassing this is, he can't deny how much he loves seeing her like this. Anytime Rebeca is enthusiastic about something — from getting an extra dumpling in their Chinese food to performing her songs on stage — it invigorates him. It's like happiness through osmosis. Joy by proxy. A radiance surrounds her like sunshine, warming anyone around her. And the best part, the part he admires most, is that she doesn't give a single fuck what other people think about her in these moments.

Without warning, just as the second verse is starting, she shoves the mic in his face and her eyes go wide, prompting him to sing. Instinctively, he does, singing along with her, "_Am I your fire? Your one desire?_"

"Yes!" she yells, grinning ear-to-ear, nodding vehemently for him to keep going. He's slightly off-pitch and his voice is a little shaky, but her over-the-top encouragement fuels him to keep going. All he wants is for her to keep smiling at him like this, keep looking at him like this.

He runs away with that impulse and takes the mic out of her hands, hamming it up for her to the best of his meager ability, careful not to let his eyes wander. If there are any onlookers, he doesn't want to know, lest he lose his nerve. "_Yes, I know it's too late. But I want it that way,_" he sings and arches his eyebrows at her, wondering if she can resist the temptation to jump in at the chorus.

She can't.

Together, they yell-sing in unison, "_Tell me why!_"

Rebecca dissolves into a giggling fit, only articulating every other word as they sing the rest of the chorus, "_Ain't nothing but a heartache. Tell me why! Ain't nothing but a mistake. Tell me why. I never want to hear you say. I want it that way._"

"The bridge!" she exclaims.

She lovingly cups one of his cheeks in her palm and gazes into his eyes, trying so, so hard to seem serious as she sings, "_Now I can see that we've fallen apart from the way that it used to be. No matter the distance, I want you to know that deep down inside of me . . ._"

Nathaniel takes a dramatic step to the side, commandeering the mic and putting a hand over his heart as he sings to her, "_You are my fire. The one desire. You are . . ._"

As the voices echo in the background, he takes a deep breath and Rebecca's eyes go wide with wild excitement for what's about to happen. He belts out, "_Don't want to hear you sayyy —_"

"Sir?"

A stern voice pierces their bubble.

A forty-something man with an employee name tag on his chest stands a few feet away, his arms crossed.

Nathaniel abruptly stops singing and his cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.

"Can you please quiet down?"

Rebecca clutches Nathaniel's bicep and apologizes, "I am so sorry, sir. I cannot take him anywhere. He can't help himself. He loves the _Backstreet Boys_."

The employee arches his left eyebrow and then walks away, the backing track to the song playing him off.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Rebecca is back to laughing, doubling over until she's resting her hands on her thighs. "Oh my god, you should see your face," she huffs.

Hilarious.

But Rebecca isn't the only one finding the whole situation highly entertaining. A young woman nearby is also covering her mouth with her hand, trying to stifle her reaction. She's pretty, poised, and impeccably dressed, not one hair out of place.

"Mona," he says under his breath.

Rebecca's too busy recovering from her laughing fit, sucking in a few last wheezing breaths. "Huh? What?"

"Mona," he says, the sensitive mic picking up his voice and reverberating it so there's no mistaking what he's said.

Rebecca immediately goes into full deer-in-headlights mode, eyes impossibly wide, the rest of her frozen stiff with shock.

It's a moment he hoped would never come, a moment he was relieved to have narrowly missed when Rebecca skipped out on Darryl's baby shower. The woman he loved meeting the woman he desperately wished he loved.

Seeing Mona in the flesh forces all the shameful memories from the fuzzy background of his mind into painfully sharp focus. He wonders if Mona knows who she is. He wonders if she knows the woman beside him is the person he was willing to lie and cheat and throw away their entire relationship for the sliver of a possibility she may love him in return.

Nathaniel quickly turns off the mic and returns it to its home on the display shelf. No need to broadcast their dirty laundry to the entire population of the store.

"Mona, hi."

"Hi," she replies, her eyes flitting back and forth between he and Rebecca.

"This is, um," he stammers, "this is Rebecca."

"Ah," Mona says with recognition, as if she suspected as much. (Maybe Rebeca's stunned reaction gave it away.) Mona sucks in a quick breath and purses her lips, and Nathaniel can feel his heart speeding up like he's just finished a ten-mile run and downed five shots of espresso along the way.

Surprising the hell out of him, Mona offers her hand to Rebecca and meets her eyes with kindness and says, "Hi, how, um, strange to meet you."

Rebecca tentatively reaches out and takes her hand, wary, as if maybe this is some kind of trick. "That was quite a performance, I have to say," Mona adds, flashing a timid smile.

Nathaniel chances a glance at Rebecca and she's still utterly tongue-tied. He muses it may be one of the very few times he's ever witnessed her rendered completely speechless.

"How have you been?" he asks.

"Great, actually. I — " Mona begins.

"I'm sorry," Rebecca blurts out. "I'm sorry I —"

Mona shakes her head, holding up a hand to stop her. "You don't have to . . . Please. That's really not necessary."

Mona uncomfortably shifts her Birkin bag on her arm and her hand catches Rebecca's attention.

"You're engaged," Rebecca observes.

He didn't notice it at first, but she's right. Mona's sporting a large yet tasteful pear-shaped diamond engagement ring on her left ring finger.

The tension in Mona's face disappears and she twists the ring around her finger, regarding it fondly. "Yes, yes I am. Rufus," she says, her tone dreamy and content.

"Congratulations," Nathaniel says, a little more perfunctory than he intended.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for this to be awkward. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually glad I ran into you two."

"You are," Nathaniel states, disbelieving.

"I wanted to thank you for your letter. It helped me. With closure. I tried calling."

"Oh, I was off-the-grid for a while. Sorry."

"No, no need. I just wanted to tell you that I do forgive you."

"You do," he exhales in relief, humbled by her maturity and grace.

"Honestly, I thought if I ever saw you again I would still feel angry. Especially with how things ended. Left at our own housewarming party for the other woman. The other woman being dragged away in handcuffs, no less. It's like I was living some _Lifetime_ movie," she says with a shallow, breathy laugh.

"But that crazy night I met Rufus. He's an EMT. On paper we're all wrong for each other. From completely different worlds. You can't choose who you love, though, can you?" she asks rhetorically, smiling knowingly at them. "And seeing you both so happy and in love makes me feel like all that heartache was worth it in the end. I found Rufus and you two are clearly meant for each other. So I guess everything worked out for the best."

His instinct is to correct her. _Rebecca and I are just friends_ flows off his tongue now with an irritating amount of ease. But Mona seems so at peace — happy even — at the thought of the two of them together that he can't bring himself to say it. If this is one tiny kindness he can give her against the mountain of hurt he caused, he wants to give that to her.

"Yeah, I guess it did," he says, wrapping an arm around Rebecca's shoulders, tucking her close to his body.

Usually she melts into his touch, their physicality with each other is something that has never wavered. It's like a second language, the way they touch. He can tell more about her emotional state through a touch of her hand on his arm — the pressure, the movement, the accompanying look in her eyes — than a thousand words could say.

It's different now, of course, with the platonic nature of their relationship. She's no longer ripping off his pants or pressing her nails into his neck or pinning his wrists against a wall or any other form of pain-slash-pleasure mixed with sexual urgency. These days her touch is combing her fingers through his hair or gently tugging on his hand or coming up behind him and wrapping her arms around his middle. Touch, once simply a means to an end, now exists solely for its own sake. The red-blooded man inside him hates to admit it, but all these little signs of affection bring him more contentment than a thousand orgasms inside a grimy supply closet.

The rigidity of her body says she's uncomfortable with this charade but she's too shell-shocked to verbalize it. The tightness of her arm around his waist says she needs grounding, something stable to hold.

"You bring out something great in him. I can see that," Mona says to Rebecca, attempting to include her in the conversation. A peace offering.

He rubs her arm in a way he hopes is soothing, but her face is still laden with unease.

"She does," he murmurs, giving Mona a half-smile, "She really does."

She does. And that's not a lie.

"OK, I better get going. Take care," she says, giving them a little wave and turning on her heels.

"You too. Bye," Nathaniel says softly.

Once the clicking of Mona's heels against the tile dies down and she's out-of-sight, Rebecca slips out from under his arm and beelines toward the exit.

"Rebecca . . ." he calls after her.

She can't outpace him, but she refuses to stop, or even meet his eyes, as she sweeps through the breezeway, then the outer glass doors into the parking lot. Even then, she keeps moving until she finally comes to rest in front of his car.

"Please say something. Talk to me," he pleads.

She glares at him, her eyes narrowing.

"I know, I know," he says, "That was weird. I'm sorry."

"Open the door," she commands.

He rummages through his pocket for his key fob and unlocks the car. She wastes no time and drops into the passenger seat and he follows her lead.

As soon as the door clicks shut, she unleashes her frustration. "Weird?! Weird?!" she exclaims.

"Sorry, I . . ."

"You just bold-faced lied in there. After everything we put her through, you can't even be honest with her for two fucking seconds?" she cries.

The fervor of her reaction knocks him off-kilter and his mouth goes dry. He understands that the situation is awkward at best, but did it really warrant this amount of outrage?

"I am so disappointed in you," she says, her voice quivering.

"Rebecca, listen, it's not that simple. It's not —"

She holds up her pointer finger. "Do _not_ say black-and-white. Don't you dare say black-and-white right now," she warns.

He bites his bottom lip as he contemplates his word choice. "Yes, it was a lie. But what would the truth have done? The way I treated her was horrible. And if the thought of us together makes her happy, why should I take that away? I think, given what I put her through, it is the _kind_ thing to let her think we're together."

Rebecca stares down at her hands, wringing her fingers together, and sighs.

"What is this really about?" he asks softly.

She clamps her eyes closed. He's right. It's not about the lie.

"OK," she breathes, "you know when we were . . . when we were . . ."

"Having the affair."

"Right. That. I told my therapist it was the healthiest romantic relationship I had ever been in. How messed up is that? I mean, you were cheating and I was in complete denial about my feelings for you. So healthy." She shakes her head, as if she's shaking the memory loose. "The first time I saw her — Mona — at Darryl's baby shower, it all hit me. The reality of the situation. Not only was I jealous, but I finally had to face how badly we were hurting her. Seeing her just now . . . I guess it threw me right back into that headspace."

There's nothing he can say. Nothing can erase the past.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "It was all my fault."

For several moments, she silently contemplates something and he waits for her to voice it, as he knows she will.

"Nathaniel, do you think we're bad for each other?" she asks in a small, meek voice.

A vice clamps around his heart. Squeezes.

"I don't want us to ever be back in that place again," she says, searching his eyes for reassurance.

"I don't want that either. Listen," he says, reaching over to cover her hand where it rests in her lap, "what we have now is different. _We're_ different."

She nods, but there's still a hint of sadness in her face that worries him.

"Hey," he murmurs and her glassy eyes meet his clear blue, "you're my best friend."

He cups her jaw with his free hand, tracing the outline of it with his thumb, and she affectionately covers his hand with her own. Leaning across the console, he presses a kiss to her cheek, then whispers in her ear, "We're never going to be back there again. I promise you."

"Yeah," she says, nodding her soft face against the rough beginning of stubble on his cheek.

As he pulls away, she squeezes the hand still palming her jaw and closes her eyes for a brief moment. In the language of her touch, he knows she forgives him. She believes him. She believes _in_ him and who he is now. When she opens her eyes, she smiles and the vice gives way, freeing his heart of its grip.

"Let's get out of here," he says and releases her to pull the seat belt over his chest. Wordlessly, he starts the car and shifts it into reverse to pull out the parking space.

As he automatically throws his right arm behind the passenger seat headrest and checks behind him for ongoing cars, she catches his eye and there's a small twinkle there.

"You win. We'll give them cash."


	8. I Do

Love doesn't discriminate

Between the sinners and the saints

It takes and it takes and it takes

We keep loving anyway

We laugh and we cry and we break

And we make our mistakes

And if there's a reason I'm by her side

When so many have tried

Then I'm willing to wait for it

I'm willing to wait for it

"Wait for It", _Hamilton_

**June 13, 2020**

_Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is wearing an ill-fitting, off-the-shoulder black dress because it's flattering on all the other bridesmaids. Love is keeping your mouth shut when hair and makeup is an hour behind schedule. Love is using a crochet needle to thread the fifty buttons on the back of her ornate wedding dress. Love is standing through a two-hour Catholic mass at the end of a line of six gorgeous Latina women without an ounce of fat on them (and Heather). And, most importantly, love is enduring it all with a smile, reassuring her that everything is perfect, and not making the day about you in any way._

Rebecca has a nagging blister on her pinky toe by the time the ceremony finally ends and the bridal party gets whisked away for photos. Valencia and Beth's wedding is an all-day, black-tie affair at a very chic, very Hollywood renovated mansion. The bridesmaids started primping and plucking at an excruciating (for Rebecca) call time of nine o'clock. With the eight bridesmaids standing on Valencia's side and two on Beth's, the suite was transformed into a virtual pop-up salon. After hours of hairspray and bobby pins and fake eyelashes, the ladies were ushered to the ceremony in a lush garden on the grounds of the mansion. And while not in a traditional Catholic church – due to annoyingly persistent same-sex restrictions – Father Brah graciously performed the full mass to the best of his ability given the resources at hand.

Rebecca is trying to be a good friend today, really trying, so she doesn't utter a word (nor roll her eyes) as the photographer orders them around. Look at the bride! Smile bigger! Pretend you're laughing! The combination of family members and bridal party feels downright endless, and Rebecca's mouth starts to ache from all the gratuitous, performative smiling.

When all her bridesmaids duties are done and she can finally relax, Rebecca is starving, ready for a stiff drink, and about a second away from ripping off one of her layers of Spanx.

A dramatic, fairy-tale staircase with wide-set steps leads up to the mansion (just one more annoyingly long obstacle between Rebecca and freedom), and the reception is hosted in an opulent ballroom. And people say _she's_ ostentatious.

Valencia and Beth opted for a sweetheart table for dinner, so Rebecca and Nathaniel are seated with a few of the other bridesmaids and their dates. Thankfully Heather and Hector are among them, plus Paula and Scott since Paula begged not to be seated with strangers. Nathaniel proves to be the perfect date she expected by keeping her champagne flute full throughout dinner with a steady stream of bubbly liquid gold.

The rest of the high school crew – Josh and his girlfriend, White Josh and his boyfriend, and Greg – are relegated to a table on the other side of the dance floor. Hector keeps glancing longingly at them, FOMO in his eyes, while Rebecca does the opposite, avoiding eye contact with Greg at all costs. Since she turned him down as a date, their interactions have been cordial but strained. Acting like it never happened is the best she could hope for, she supposes, but it leaves her craving resolution. Tip-toeing is not her strong suit, but she also knows her bull-in-a-china-shop approach to emotional situations backfires about ninety percent of the time.

After dinner, guests get up to mingle and refill their drinks at the bar. Hector vanishes and reappears a few minutes later across the room next to White Josh, leaving Heather and Rebecca standing together at the edge of the dance floor as they wait for the newly-weds' first dance.

The slow, bluesy song selection of _Come Away With Me_ by Norah Jones surprises Rebecca. Against the backdrop of this showy event, their dance is quiet. No planned choreography or glitz. Just the two of them, slowly swaying with the music, whispering in each other's ears.

Valencia rests her head on Beth's shoulder, a peaceful expression on her face, and Rebecca sighs. That's all she wants, she thinks wistfully. Someone to hold her and dance with her and whisper secret jokes to her. Looking around the room at all the other couples in attendance holding hands and leaning on each other, she wonders how love can be so seemingly easy for everyone except her.

Before she sees Greg's eyes on her, she feels them. From across the dance floor, Greg is watching her, the same longing on his face she suspects is reflected on her own. Except it's aimed squarely at her and her stomach lurches in a way that's equal parts anxiety and dread.

At that moment, Nathaniel comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her collarbone, resting his chin atop her head. The gesture is so familiar – he's done it countless times in the comfort of their own apartments – that her hands automatically find their home over his forearms in a burst of muscle memory. Greg quickly breaks eye contact and refocuses on Valencia and Beth, his mouth forming into a straight, tight line. To her left, Heather raises a judgmental eyebrow.

Rebecca begins to sweat, a panicky feeling washing over her when she realizes that they've been this way in private – so comfortably tactile with each other – but maybe this level of intimacy is not acceptable for public consumption. She can only imagine what others are thinking, especially after all their adamant declarations that they are merely platonic friends.

The song finishes and Valencia and Beth passionately kiss to wild applause, which gives Rebecca an opportunity to slip out of Nathaniel's arms.

The music transitions into _Superstition_ by Stevie Wonder and the opening funky riff makes Nathaniel's eyes go wide. He takes her hand and gently tugs her onto the dance floor.

"You know what I'm gonna say," he says, carefree and playful, "about the bass line."

"That this is what it would sound like if Marty Macaroon was actually good?" she quips.

"Basically," he laughs, flashing a toothy grin.

They're the first two dancing aside from the newly-wedded couple, so Rebecca's intention of dialing down their physical connection flies out the window almost immediately. Nathaniel takes the lead, holding both her hands loosely in his, and she follows. His upbeat energy is a stark contrast to her own exhaustion from the days activities. But his enjoyment rubs off on her and she sways her hips in unison with the beat and lets him twirl her around. What they lack in grace and polish they make up for in enthusiasm.

He's certainly in his element, she muses, all clean shaven and dapper in his tux, owning the dance floor like he was raised in a ballroom. When he claimed months ago that one of his new Nathaniel resolutions was to stop caring what others thought of him, she was highly skeptical. Erasing a lifetime of conditioning to value appearances above all else doesn't happen overnight. (She imagines his childhood like a version of _The Sound of Music_ with his father as the Captain and Nathaniel as Frederich, probably, who wasn't allowed to sing or play in clothes made from curtains.) But he's proving her wrong, between the karaoke incident and the way he's gleaning such delight in dancing with her. Frankly, she's not sure if she's ever seen him have so much unabashed fun before.

The dance floor fills up considerably as the song progresses and throughout she can feel the side-eyeing looks from their friends. She tries her best to shake off the nerves and embrace Nathaniel's breezy the end of the song, he secures his grip around her waist and dips her, and she squeals from the sheer surprise of it. With complete trust in his hold on her, she dramatically throws her head back, her hair cascading in a waterfall behind her.

The music subtly segues into a Michael Buble cover of _I've Got You Under My Skin_ and Nathaniel pulls her back upright out of the dip. He offers his hand to transition into a slow dance, grinning slyly at how the dip has left her breathless.

"You think you are so slick," she teases, fitting her hand into his and resting the other on his bicep.

He draws her close with his hand on her lower back. "I guess you're immune to my charms now," he says.

"Guess so," she replies with a smirk.

"I love this song."

"Yeah?"

"You know how you played the same musicals over and over again in our office? My mother did the same thing when I was a kid. Except with Frank Sinatra."

She tips her head back and he smiles fondly down at her, though maybe it's the memory of his mother giving him that distant, dreamy look.

"I wish we could dance cheek-to-cheek," she says.

"I'm not getting any shorter, so you better have a growth spurt. Maybe there's a step stool around here," he jokes, looking side-to-side as if searching for one.

Their bodies are all wrong together, she thinks, as his chin grazes her forehead. A terrible fit. She's shocked he hasn't developed a hunchback with all the time he's spent stooping over to talk to her or hug her or any other variation of piercing her personal space bubble.

And the problem certainly isn't limited to dancing. In their few weeks as a couple, missionary sex was a challenge, his head thwacking the headboard at inopportune moments. Even when they made out, the part of him she most wanted to feel was always out-of-reach, somewhere down by her thigh. In the supply closet days, stray office furniture – namely a well-placed table and a sturdy office chair – helped bridge the height gap and consequently became an integral part of their sex-making. Not to mention all the time he spent lifting her to his level, to the point that Rebecca joked he could cancel his gym membership. All in all, it was an effort to make it work. (Yet somehow, they always made it work.)

In her periphery, she spots White Josh watching them dance and it gives her that same uneasy feeling as when she caught Greg's eye earlier.

"Do you feel like people are watching us?" she asks, her fingers tightening her grip on his hand.

"Why? Because of our killer dance moves? Or maybe because I have the most gorgeous date at this wedding?"

She lets out a nervous laugh, disarmed by his quick, cavalier reply. "No. What? You think. . .is that how you think of me?"

"You should know by now that I only sleep with gorgeous women. And we slept together, what, a billion times? So, you're gorgeous times a billion," he says, effortless, with a lopsided grin.

She's been called cute too many times to count. Quirky. Sexy, sometimes, in very specific circumstances. Hot, once in a long while. But gorgeous? That's a Nathaniel word. And it comes with zero hesitation and a genuine inflection that leaves no room to question whether he means it.

Of course she thinks _he's_ attractive. Who doesn't? Nathaniel is empirically, factually handsome. Like a sexy, buttoned-up Disney prince. But as time has passed and their proximity has become normalized, their physical attraction has tempered and transformed into something more comfortable. She no longer feels like a live wire in his presence, ready to explode at any moment. She can control her baser urges now, though there are still moments when those urges bubble up and pool, hot and viscous, in her center.

"Can I ask you something?" she blurts out, her verbal filter dwindling down to a nub under his spell. (And the champagne buzz helps.)

"Of course," he says, leaning in closer to hear her over the music.

Rebecca glances at Valencia and Beth, then verbalizes a question she's been sitting on for over a year. No more appropriate place than a wedding, she supposes. "Did you _really_ buy me an engagement ring? After our date?"

Nathaniel straightens up and looks away, ruffled by the question, and she immediately regrets her selfish curiosity.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

He shakes his head. "No, I just. . .I haven't thought about that in a long time."

"You don't have to explain –"

"I did. I did do that. It was impulsive and I was overconfident. And stupid. So stupid. What was I thinking?"

She hates this. Witnessing Nathaniel beat himself up, up close, in real time. And for what? Sure, it was jumping the gun in a big way. But all he did was love her with the passion she always thought she wanted.

"I still have it," he says with a clipped chuckle, a rueful smile playing on his lips, "I locked it in my safe before I left for Guatemala."

He lifts his chin, avoiding eye contact, which is easy when he's a full head taller. Her heart's breaking for him, and it stings even worse than it did a year ago. Because now she knows him, really knows him. It's beyond knowing how to push his buttons and where to find his pleasure centers and that he has issues with his father. All of that seems so surface level now. He's shown her so much more – his hopes and fears and insecurities – trusting her as a friend, his best friend. He's trying to hide the pain from her, the pain she caused, and all she wants to do is soothe it away.

"Hey," she says, straining her neck to catch his attention.

He sighs and swallows hard, pinching his lips tightly together before finally meeting her eyes.

"I'm sorry I hurt you while I was trying to find myself," she murmurs. She moves her hand from his arm to the back of his neck and rubs her fingers through his hair. "I mean that. OK?"

He nods sharply and lets out a hefty exhale.

His expression, so soft and vulnerable and naked, brings her back to the holding cell almost two years ago, when he palmed her face in both his hands, his fingers all twisted up in her hair, and whispered, "I'm so in love with you. You have no idea how much. We're in this together now. You and me. I'm not going to let you go to jail. I'll do anything. Whatever it takes."

The memory makes her breath catch in her throat. She closes her eyes, trying to ground herself by focusing on the sound of the music, the familiar smell of his teakwood cologne, the comforting lull of his thumb tracing circles on her lower back. Though they're surrounded by people, the rest of the world falls away. By some irresistible magnetic pull, they drift closer and closer together as they dance until their noses are almost brushing.

When she opens her eyes he's gazing down at her with an intimacy and intensity she's seen in his eyes before.

It would be so easy.

"Rebecca?"

Rebecca sucks in a quick breath, startled, and jerks away from Nathaniel.

"Sorry to interrupt," Greg says, totally interrupting, "but can I talk to you?"

Rebecca glances at Nathaniel and he appears just as rattled as she, his mouth parted and eyebrows raised.

"Just for a minute," Greg adds, his eyes darting between them.

"Sure," she says, taking a deep breath, trying to will her heartbeat to slow down. She gives Nathaniel an apologetic look and follows Greg off the dance floor and into the next room.

The adjacent room houses the bar and, thus, a smattering of wedding guests who are taking a break from dancing. Among them are Heather and Hector, who are sipping cocktails at a high-top table. When they notice Rebecca and Greg enter the room together, they exchange glances. Hector fidgets uncomfortably, but Heather seems keenly interested and sips loudly through her straw with raised eyebrows. "Just pretend we're talking," she whispers to Hector.

Greg comes to a stop a couple feet away from the table and Rebecca wrings her hands together, bracing herself for impact. But he surprises her, saying without an ounce of angst, "I just want to clear the air. Finally have a little post-mortem on the me asking you out and you saying no."

"OK," she replies hesitantly, wondering why he's so strangely calm about the whole thing.

"You could have just told me you were dating Nathaniel. I don't know why you didn't."

Oh. Oh boy.

He goes on, a hint of passive-aggressive snark in his voice, "I get it. He came back and swooped in at just the right time and you chose him. You snooze you lose, I guess."

She squints. What is he trying to say? That they aren't dating simply due to someone else showing up at the right place and time? That her rejection is merely circumstantial?

Social subtleties are hard for her to parse and she thinks about what Nathaniel has told her a thousand times, as if he's a little angel (or devil) on her shoulder. This is not black-and-white, Rebecca. Her mind drifts back to their encounter with Mona. What is the _kind_ thing to do in this situation? But Greg isn't Mona. He isn't someone she'll see once in a blue moon at a department store. He's a friend. And if she's not honest now, the truth will come out eventually.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and says, "Oh god, Greg. Um, we're not dating. We're just friends."

Greg flinches and rubs his temple. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"

She sighs, resigned, her arms going limp out in front of her, "We're not. . .we're not together."

A few feet away, Heather has stopped pretending to talk to Hector and her eyes, wide with interest, ping-pong back and forth between Rebecca and Greg.

Greg's eyebrows squish together and he turns his back to her for a moment, collecting his thoughts. When he turns back, he says, "Sorry, but you looked very much together from where I was sitting."

"I know. I know it's weird. It's. . .that's just how we are."

Greg scoffs. "So let me get this straight. You didn't want to come with me, the guy who actually wants to date you and who's been respecting your explicitly-stated wishes to give you space for over a year. Instead, you bring a supposed "friend" who happened to pounce at the opportune moment. And Nathaniel, of all people. Mr. Golden Boy. Then, you decide to rub salt in the wound by groping each other all night. Don't you ever stop and think about anyone else's feelings?" he says, his voice full of disdain, taking particular relish in his use of air quotes.

Neither of them had noticed Nathaniel enter the room, but suddenly he's at Rebecca's side.

"What's going on?" he asks with hesitation.

Annoyed by the perceived intrusion, Greg holds up a hand to him. "This isn't about you. This is a conversation between me and Rebecca."

"Funny, because I swear I heard my name a second ago."

"Oh shit," Heather mutters under her breath. Hector pokes her with his elbow.

"Anything you want to say, you can say in front of him," Rebecca says in a small display of defiance.

Greg bites his lip, not hiding his irritation.

"Fine," he says after a prolonged beat. "Here's what I want to say. On Valentine's Day, when you said you were ready for love, I thought you were talking about us," he says, his tone softening, speaking directly to her and avoiding Nathaniel's eyes. "After all this wait, I thought it was finally our time to be together."

"You said you weren't going to wait for me," she says in a low voice while she stares at the carpet.

"To be honest, I hoped the prospect of losing me would make you change your mind," he admits, his eyes pleading for her understanding. "I thought you'd fight for us. And when you didn't, I assumed that eventually you would come around and we would get back together. Everyone did. I've been waiting a long time for you to be ready for a real relationship. Not just this past year but even before that. And now we barely talk. It's like I don't even understand you anymore."

She nods, slow and measured. Then, the air around her shifts and she crosses her arms over her chest and huffs. "So you lied. You lied to me," she states, matter-of-fact.

"Not exactly," he says, putting a staccato pause between the two words, "I let you go, which was what you wanted."

Rebecca's breathing quickens and hot adrenaline starts to course through her veins. "No, you know what, this is bullshit," she blurts out.

Heather sucks in a breath.

"What you're saying is that I _owe_ you a relationship because you waited for me, even though I told you not to?" she says, her voice rising with anger, "You're saying you put in your time so I'm obligated to date you now?"

"Obligated?" he repeats.

"And when was this magical time when you understood me? Was it when you walked out on me in the middle of an argument when I was feeling vulnerable? You know you always act all high-and-mighty, like you're this _nice guy_ but really –"

Just as she's about to fully unleash on Greg, Nathaniel rests a warm hand on her bare upper back. At his touch, she immediately stops speaking. She looks up at him and his face is drawn, serious, and he gives her the tiniest shake of his head.

She takes a deep breath and counts to five in her head. He's right. She knows he's right.

Greg's eyes narrow as he watches their wordless exchange.

When she speaks again, she's much more calm and composed. "I just don't think we should be together. I don't think we're right for each other."

"Not right for each other," he repeats, bitterness oozing from his voice. "You know, maybe you're right. Because you two are perfect for each other, aren't you?"

Heather winces.

"Quite the Prince Charming you've got here," he says sarcastically, gesturing to Nathaniel. "This guy threatened Josh's family. Propositioned you in an elevator when you were engaged to someone else. Fired you. Cheated on his girlfriend with you for _months_."

Nathaniel's hand remains steady and reassuring on her back, rising and falling in tandem with her every breath. He doesn't flinch or waver or try to defend himself. He simply takes the criticism, unmoving.

"And you're no better, Rebecca," Greg barrels on, "Every time we have a disagreement, you run straight to alcohol. Which is great for a recovering alcoholic. Real sensitive. And is there anyone you haven't tried to sleep with while you were supposed to be with me? Have you _ever_ had a relationship that didn't involve massive amounts of cheating?"

For a tense beat, Greg and Rebecca stare at each other and a familiar glimmer of remorse reflects back in his eyes. Getting a taste of her own medicine hurts, even if she can tell he'll regret it later. She worries her lower lip with her teeth and her shoulders slump, though she says nothing.

Greg's anger seems to temper then, seeing her deflate in front of his eyes. His voice turns softer, more resigned. "And, you know what, you had sex with my dad. You did. You did that. And I thought I was mature and evolved and I could move past it, but. . .it'll always be there, looming in the back of my mind. I'm sorry."

Her eyes begin to fill with tears, at a complete loss for words. What could she possibly say? It's true. All of it.

She's not even sure what he's looking for. An apology? She's done that so many times before. Does he want an emotional reaction? To see her suffer for her sins? Does he want her to fight for them? To say he's wrong and she's changed and things are going to be different now?

No matter what he wants, she's not prepared to give it and she's too exhausted to try to read his mind.

"I guess it's good then," she says, her voice cracking, "That we're not going to be together."

She blinks the tears away the best she can and flees from the room, heading to the door.

Fight and/or flight. Usually in that order.

Except this time she didn't lash out when cornered. Baby steps.

Rebecca hears Heather say, "Dude, not cool," as she storms out.

She's a sad, twisted version of Cinderella, leaving the lavish lobby in a flurry and spilling out the front entrance. And the long staircase is as treacherous as the fairy tale. Somehow it seems twice as long as it did earlier in the day and more difficult to navigate in the partial darkness. The soft glow of the twinkle lighting on the bannisters creates a romantic ambiance she wishes she could fully appreciate in this moment of turmoil.

Afraid of tripping and creating even more of a disastrous scene, she pulls up the front of her dress and ambles down the stairs as carefully as she can. About a quarter of the way down, one of her shoes slips off and her inertia pitches her forward a few more steps before she can stop herself. With a groan, she surrenders herself to the moment and plops her butt down on the step. Fuck it. She's going to lose it, right here, right now, in this romantic mood lighting, on the steps of this beautiful mansion.

She covers her face with her hands and takes a few long, deep breaths. The day had gone so well up until this point. She concentrated all her energy on supporting Valencia and being the friend she needed on her wedding day. Maybe she can't make up for all the times in the past she was too self-absorbed to be a good friend, but she was really trying. Of course _something_ had to happen to ruin it.

From the top of the staircase, a click-clack of shoes descends down the staircase at a quicker clip than someone burdened with high heels. The noise stops behind her and she knows it's Nathaniel without even looking.

"I know what you're going to say," she sighs.

Nathaniel walks down a few more steps until he's in front of her, holding her lost shoe in his hand.

"You're going to say," she goes on, "that I don't owe Greg anything. I don't owe him a relationship or sex just because he waited. It doesn't work that way. You don't put in time or nice gestures and automatically get rewarded with a relationship."

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing in return.

"And you're going to say that I shouldn't beat myself up for things that happened in the past. I'm a different person now. And I can't change my past mistakes, I can only move forward. And you know me and think I'm a good person. Blah blah blah."

He tilts his head to the side, opens his mouth and then closes it.

"And you're going to say that I did the right thing not lashing out, even though I really, really wanted to."

Finally, he speaks, giving her a tiny shrug. "I was just going to ask if you wanted to finish our dance."

She laughs, breathy and disbelieving, "Our dance?"

He squats and palms her ankle, sliding her high heel onto her bare foot. Then he takes both her hands and helps her to her feet.

"Stay right there," he says, wrapping one arm around her waist and taking her hand in his. With her a step higher, their height is almost equalized. He sways back and forth and cozies his cheek against hers. "See, now we can dance cheek-to-cheek," he murmurs.

She smiles and presses her cheek to his, following his shallow steps back and forth.

"Greg hates me," she whispers, her voice choking up.

"No, he doesn't. The opposite of love isn't hate. It's indifference."

Rebecca pulls back and shoots him an incredulous look. "What, did Doctor Plátanos teach you that?"

"He's a wise monkey," he says with a laugh, "No, actually I read that in a book once."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying he's upset because he cares. You care about each other."

She sighs and closes her eyes, resting her head against his shoulder and letting out a huge exhale.

"That's it. Just breathe. Everything's gonna be OK," he whispers, firming up his arm around her waist.

"There's no music," she mumbles into his jacket.

"Well, I can fix that," he says. He clears his throat and then begins to sing quietly in a slower adagio than the song's usual tempo, "_I've got you under my skin. I've got you deep in the heart of me._"

She smiles against his shoulder and nuzzles into the crook of his neck. The rhythmic beat of his heart under her ear and his soothing voice are all she needs in this moment. It's like coming home. Her soft place to land.

"_So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin_," he croons, his voice bottoming out on the lowest note.

It's funny, she thinks. When their relationship was romantic, every time they came together it was fireworks and explosions. Like every time he touched her she was on fire, always on the verge of spreading out-of-control. Their touch was searching, needing, aching with a want that could never truly be quenched. But now when he holds her, she feels safe. Protected. Supported. Loved is a word she doesn't want to use, but it's there, lurking in the background, threatening the balance.

"_I tried so not to give in. I said to myself this affair never will go so well. But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well. I've got you under my skin._"

She lifts her head, returning her cheek to his and wraps both arms around his shoulders, drawing him even closer. His free hand joins the other around her lower back. The classic junior high dance pose, she thinks with semi-fond remembrance.

When she looks up over his shoulder, she sees Paula standing a few steps away, concern in her eyes. Maybe Heather told her about the argument and went looking for her. Rebecca gives her a subtle, reassuring smile. Everything's OK, mama. Paula returns her smile, the corners of her mouth quirking up knowingly. This will be a conversation for another day, she's sure.

"_I'd sacrifice anything, come what might, for the sake of having you near. In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night and repeats, repeats in my ear. Don't you know, you fool, you never can win. Use your mentality. Wake up to reality. But each time I do just the thought of you makes me stop before I begin. Cause I've got you under my skin._"

He trails off but continues to rock them slowly back and forth. When he pulls away to look into her eyes, the angle is disarming. She's rarely able to regard him this way, with their eyes parallel, bearing witness to every small flicker of emotion in his eyes.

He wets his lips with his tongue and her eyes droop, following the motion.

"I've been thinking," he says, his voice low and scratchy.

"What?" she breathes. Her heart starts to pound.

"Remember when I said I think we're meant to be together?"

Her stomach drops and her heartbeat crescendos until she can feel it ringing up to her ears.

"I do."

"Maybe I was right all along."

She searches his eyes, wondering if he's saying what she thinks he's saying. A hot flush burns her cheeks and she squeaks out, "Yeah?"

"Maybe we're meant to be together, but like this. As friends."

She exhales sharply, breaking eye contact. The champagne must have gone to her head. The romantic lighting, his singing, and his strong arms around her. . .she must have been swept up in the moment. She shakes her head, trying to get her wits about her.

"Yeah," she says, "Of course. As friends. Maybe you're right." She loosens her arms around his shoulders, putting some distance between them. She swallows hard and says, "Thank you for being my date tonight. You really showed up for me. With Greg. Thank you."

"I didn't do anything."

"Yeah you did. You were there. You stood by me."

"You're welcome then," he says, smiling warmly.

"So," she exhales, "ready to go back in and cut a rug? As a bridesmaid I have an obligation to ride out this party until the very end. Oh! I can teach you how to body roll."

"I'd like to see you try," he jokes, offering her elbow to guide her back up the stairs.

_Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is wearing a stiff tux through a Catholic mass in ninety-degree Los Angeles summer heat. Love is dancing like only she's watching. Love is fishing bobby pins out of her hair because she's too tipsy to find them all. Love is tucking her in and leaving, even when something deep inside you screams for you to stay. And most importantly, love is enduring it all with a smile, for her, and expecting nothing in return._


	9. Sincerely Me

Even when the dark comes crashing through

When you need a friend to carry you

When you're broken on the ground

You will be found

"You Will Be Found", _Dear Evan Hansen_

**Part Three: Oh My God, I Think I Like You (Reprise)**

**July 25, 2020**

"Eat the fry."

"No."

"Come on, we have been emotionally obliterated and it's time to eat our feelings," Rebecca insists, dangling a french fry in front of Nathaniel's mouth.

"I do not eat my feelings, first of all," Nathaniel protests, pushing her hand away, "And my emotions are just fine. Not obliterated in any way."

Rebecca rolls her eyes and pops the fry into her own mouth.

Nathaniel stabs at his salad. With a forkful of bibb lettuce, he gestures with the utensil for emphasis, "Plus, do you know how much weight I've gained since I've been back?" When she continues to chew, showing no signs of guessing, he supplies the answer, "Five pounds."

She sucks in an exaggerated breath and cries, "Gasp! How will you ever survive?!"

"I'm just saying," he adds, finally taking a crunchy bite of his salad.

With her mouth full, she says, "We're going to need sustenance for the rest of the walk back to your car."

"It's a mile, at most. It's not going to kill you. And no one told you to wear those high heels. Did you really expect me to park my Ferrari on that busy street where hordes of people are constantly walking by?"

She swallows. "I could never be with someone who treats their car like their baby. It's so gross," she says casually, plucking a few fries from her plate with her fingers and shoving them into her mouth.

He pulls a face that's equal parts disgust and horror. "Yeah well I could never be with someone who eats fries like that. Talk about gross," he fires back.

"Shut up," she mutters and elbows him in the ribs with a playful grin.

The entire establishment is gross, he thinks as he shifts uncomfortably in the fire-engine red trying-to-be-vintage corner booth. The floors of the diner have a sticky sort of sheen and the food has a greasy sort of sheen, both of which makes his stomach crawl. This little hole-in-the-wall Rebecca spotted on their way back to the car is trying way too hard to be a hole-in-the-wall with its overuse of kitschy decor and overhead lighting that's a touch too dim.

"OK," she says with purpose, wiping her fingers on a napkin, giving the plate of fries a reprieve, "Now it's time to unpack the emotional devastation that is _Dear Evan Hansen_. Tell me blow-by-blow what you liked and disliked and how every part made you feel."

He opens his mouth to say something, but she cuts in before he can speak, "I'll go first. Can we talk about how cruel it is to put intermission immediately after _You Will Be Found_? There I was, ugly crying all my makeup off – a complete mess – and _that's_ when they decide to bring the lights up?!"

He chuckles, remembering how she fished a packet of Kleenex from her purse and loudly blew her nose into one of the tissues. While people got up from their seats and milled around, rustling and shuffling and causing a dull roar, she remained firmly planted in her seat. Unsure how to respond, he wrapped his arm loosely around her shoulders while offering apologetic looks to their seat-mates who had the unfortunate task of trying to sneak by in the cramped space between the two rows.

Nathaniel takes a sip of his black coffee and nods for her to keep going. Though he has an inkling why the song elicited such a powerful response from her, he wants to hear her verbalize it.

"I've done terrible things to people. Some truly fucked up stuff. Worse stuff, worse lies than the ones Evan told. To people I consider close friends. And then, when I," she pauses to check his reaction before continuing, "tried to kill myself, everyone was still there for me. They found me, like the song says. Despite everything."

Thinking she may cry again, he puts the mug down and leans toward her to show he's attentive and listening.

"There are so many times I felt like I didn't deserve that amount of support," she admits. Her eyes are unfocused, lost in thought, as she reminisces, "One of my first nights back from the hospital, the girls were so worried about me they slept in my hallway outside my bedroom. On the floor."

"You have great friends," he murmurs, wishing he were as gifted as Rebecca at building lasting friendships. He has woefully little experience in that soft-skilled area, and Rebecca's fiercely loyal girl mob is his best guess at what it looks like in practice.

"It wasn't always like this. Before I came to West Covina, I lost almost _every_ friend I ever had. The closest thing I have to a childhood friend is Audra and she's more of a frenemy than anything," she says.

"Really?" he asks, surprised. He can barely fathom a time she wasn't the extraverted, outgoing ray of sunshine she is now, constantly attracting everyone to her like moths to a flame.

"Even you," she says, completing a thought in her head he isn't privy to.

"Even me what?"

"You were there for me too. We barely even knew each other then. But there you were, at my door. And after everything I did to you."

He tilts his head to the side, searching his memory banks. "What . . . what did you do to me?"

She scoffs, as if the answer should be obvious. "Well, let's see. First, I manipulated you with sex to do my bidding in my misguided revenge scheme against Josh. Then, after the aforementioned sex, I basically ghosted you. Then, I was fully prepared to use you for your private jet to escape the giant dumpster fire I created. Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh," he utters. He supposes if you put all those things together, it doesn't sound great. "I guess I never held any of that against you," he says with a half-shrug, adding, "And it's not like I was a saint."

"Oh no, you were a perfect angel," she snarks with a twinkle in her eye.

Is it friendship if you want to kiss her when she smiles like that? When her face scrunches up and she gets that cute little wrinkle above her nose?

But the smile is ephemeral and fades as quickly as it sparked.

"That song brought all those memories back to me," she says, her voice choking up, "My friends have found me so many times. I hope someday I can be the one doing the finding. And I hope someday I can write a song like that. A song that moves someone, even one person, _this_ much."

He has not one clue why this thought is making her so sad, but he rubs her back and says hesitantly, "You will. I know you will."

"Oh my god," she groans, rubbing her eyes, "I'm sorry. I'm so emotional lately."

"It's OK."

She points at his chest and vehemently asserts, "It's not a period thing, if that's what you're thinking."

"I wasn't thinking that," he quickly says, defensive.

He was absolutely thinking that.

It's day three of her period. Not that he intentionally learned her cycle. He didn't. But she's on hormonal birth control and it comes like clockwork every four weeks. He'd have to be an idiot not to pick up on it and she isn't exactly shy about announcing its arrival.

Three days prior to her period is when he makes himself scarce. That's when she's irritable and moody and everything he says seems to be wrong. (Though he'll never, ever utter the deadly acronym "PMS" again after an incident involving a gluten-free pretzel being hurled at his head.)

Usually, on the first day of her period, the pain is so excruciating she skips work in favor of curling up into a hedgehog-like ball under her blankets. On those days, he swings by with a bottle of red wine and chocolate around six o'clock. Rebecca always remarks that his peace offering is such a stereotypical male idea of what women want during their periods, but it doesn't stop her from being coaxed out of bed for a few hours to imbibe half the bottle. The rest of the three-to-four days of her red friend are not as painful physically, though she tends to be much more sensitive and teary.

"You are totally thinking that, but I swear to god it's not. And it's not just the show either."

"OK, enlighten me."

"I'm switching meds."

"Again? Why?" By his mental math, this must be the third time in the past year or so.

"Besides making me tired all the time, let's just say there was an incident last week where my blood pressure was so high I was one diastolic number away from my doctor sending me to the ER for heart attack symptoms."

He raises his eyebrows in shock. How did he not know about this?

As if reading his mind, she says softly, "I didn't want you to worry. You had that big deposition."

"What does this mean exactly?"

"I'm withdrawing now, which honestly is somehow worse than when I was actually on the damn drug. I'm nauseous. Dizzy. But the worst of it is how panicky and anxious I feel all the time. I'm having panic attacks almost daily. It feels like I'm not in control of my own body, which is the scary part."

"Oh. Wow. Is that normal?"

"Not normal, but it happens to some people. It's happening to me!" she says, forcing a light-hearted tone, though it has a cutting undertone she can't hide.

Knowing he cannot truly understand what she's going through, he simply says, "I'm sorry."

"Sometimes I just get so _tired_ of all this," she says, weariness in her voice, gesturing generally at the air in front of her.

"I know," he whispers.

She clears her throat, announcing a change of subject, "I know why I was emotional in there. But what about you?"

"Me?"

"Oh, drop the act. Are you telling me those weren't tears I saw during _So Big/So Small_? That's the first time I've ever seen you come close to crying."

He's caught. They were, in fact, tears he mistakenly thought he hid from her during the devastating refrain of _Your mom isn't going anywhere, your mom is staying right here_. He had anchored his elbow on the armrest and propped up his chin, discreetly turning his face away from her.

Taking in his hurt expression, she backtracks, "Never mind."

"No, you're right," he says with earnest, "You got me."

Rebecca's eyes widen and she stays silent, waiting for him to elaborate.

Is it friendship if you want to tell her everything, to show her every part of you? Even the deepest, darkest parts? Especially the deepest, darkest parts.

He swallows. With no easy transition, he bluntly states, "My mother tried to commit suicide when I was ten – with pills – and I was the one who found her passed out on the floor."

Rebecca's mouth drops open. "Wh - What? What? You f-found her? At ten years old. Oh my god," she rasps, "I can't even imagine. Oh my god."

"We were never allowed to discuss it. It wasn't until a few years ago she finally told me the truth. She has bipolar two. It went untreated most of her life and that was her worst depressive episode," he replies with a quiet calm, "It's why I didn't visit you in the hospital. I . . . I couldn't."

Rebecca goes still as she processes the information. He imagines that behind her eyes every gear is turning, every synapse firing as she reframes their entire history of interactions with this new context.

The reason he knows this to be true is he did the same thing when he found out about his mother. He spent months re-contextualizing every childhood memory with the newfound knowledge, everything suddenly snapping into place and making sense in a way that was both comforting and sad at the same time. So many things he experienced as a child he normalized over time, having no frame of reference to prove otherwise.

There were days his mom would wake him up, filled with boundless energy, and treat him to an extravagant shopping spree for new toys or a spontaneous drive all the way to San Diego just to visit the zoo or an all-day Frank Sinatra dance marathon in the dining room. As a kid, he saw those as the good days. But then there were the bad days. The days she wouldn't get out of bed. The housekeeper would send him in with her breakfast and she would cry, so touched, and affectionately call him _my little sweet pea_. That's when the au pair would swoop in and his mother would tell him to run along and play. He felt slighted, at the time, and angsty about it as a teenager. But now, with the wisdom that comes with adulthood, he sees with crystal clarity that she always made sure he was taken care of when she couldn't do it herself.

And there were rare days when she let him see her at her most vulnerable – when she broke down under the weight of her illness. He would comfort her the best he could, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing hard. That always seemed to help. And afterward she would brush the stray locks of blonde hair off his forehead and smile down at him through grateful, teary blue eyes. She made him promise not to tell his father about those days, to act like everything was normal. It would only worry him, she said.

Finally, after several elongated moments of silence, Rebecca says, "Why didn't you ever tell me? I mean, all the times we've spent talking about my own diagnosis and treatment and all of it, you never said a word."

"I've never told _anyone_ about this. It's not exactly an easy thing to bring up. And when you told me about your BPD, it wasn't the time to pile on with my own issues."

She scoots closer and puts her hand on his thigh. "Finding her like that must have been traumatizing. I'm sorry."

He waves her concern away. "It's OK. I'd rather not relive it. She, um, she did her best. I know she did the best she could."

"Thank you for telling me. For trusting me with this."

He nods and feels himself getting choked up all over again. "OK, I think I'll have a fry now," he jokes, flashing her a grin and trying to tamp down the emotions he feels churning in his stomach.

"There you go," she says enthusiastically, "Eat your feelings like the rest of us."

He's relieved for the mood shift and realizes he already feels lighter from telling her the truth. Maybe some secrets are too heavy for one person to carry around alone.

Rebecca picks up a fry and teasingly pokes it toward Nathaniel's mouth. Playing along, he catches her wrist to steady it and takes the entire fry into his mouth, unintentionally catching the tips of her fingers with his tongue. His eyes flicker up to hers, worried he's crossed a line. But her gaze is fixed on his mouth, her eyes a little darker than they were a few seconds ago. Or is he imagining that hungry look in her eyes? He must be. He abruptly releases her wrist and she lets out a nervous laugh, picking up a fry and putting it into her own mouth.

Is it friendship if you want to suck on her bottom lip and kiss her so hard it takes her breath away? Is it friendship if you want to know what she tastes like with all the grease and salt and smudged lipstick around her mouth?

No matter how platonic their relationship, he still notices her as a woman. And, in moments like these, he wonders if she notices him in return. With both of them fairly solidly on the same end of the Kinsey Scale and being members of the opposite sex, it seems impossible not to. Not when he can close his eyes and remember all the times she was sprawled out naked on his bed or on his desk or riding his lap in an office chair. He can never forget all the melodious sounds she made (and the prickle of her fingernails through his hair) when his head was between her legs and he applied just the right amount of pressure to send her into orbit.

To add insult to injury, she's wearing the same purple dress as when they kissed in the elevator. That in itself leads him down a path he can't seem to avoid.

Is it friendship if you think about her every time you take yourself into your own hand at night? God knows he tries not to. He really tries. He uses visual aids of escalating intensity. He tries to imagine anyone else, but his mind always gets pulled back to her. _After_, he feels guilty. Like he's committed some kind of disgusting thought crime against her. _After_, he vows he'll never think about her that way again. Yet, every time he touches himself, he's back to imagining she's on top of him, surrounding him, filling up every lonely place of him.

Whether he's attracted to her or not, it doesn't matter anyway. That closeness he confided to Heather about on a roadside in the middle of nowhere – that closeness he cried about wanting so badly – he has it. Boy, does he have it. And he'll be damned if he jeopardizes that closeness over some dressed up nostalgia for times they fucked, back when he fruitlessly pined over her with no reciprocation in immediate sight. _Nothing_ is worth the risk of losing her again. Consequently, he's become an expert at suppressing those pesky, intrusive physical impulses when he's in her close proximity.

"So, um, how's Melissa's case going?" she asks, as if they're back to being two colleagues, making small talk at the coffee pot.

"Good. We're close to setting a trial date. Once they see the footage from the store, they'll have to let her go free."

"Great," she says, lackluster, "I know that case is important to you."

"Yeah, it's great. It really is."

A tense silence lingers. It feels familiar, the way the air used to crackle between them until one of them gave in (usually her) and pushed the other up against a wall or door or any other available hard, flat surface.

"Let's get out of here," he finally huffs, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

On the walk back to his car, Rebecca clicks a step behind him in her cursed high heels and he slows to accommodate her pint-sized stride.

"_Bachelorette_ Monday? Are you coming over?" Rebecca asks, slightly out-of-breath.

Truthfully, he's a little sick of the show, in particular the way it manages to be utter garbage yet simultaneously calls out all his most deep-seated romantic insecurities.

He shrugs, "I think I'm done with that."

"But Jenna! You love her," she pleads, grabbing onto his forearm.

"I'm sure she'll be just fine without my watching."

"Then let's do something else."

"Like what?"

"Hmmm," she hums. "Oh! You know what we always said we would do but never actually did?"

"What's that?"

"Word games! Boggle. Scrabble," she lists excitedly, managing to put a little skip in her step.

He quirks his head to the side, "If I remember correctly, I think we were using those as a metaphor for something else."

"Still. I am formidable at word games. I got an almost-perfect score on the verbal portion of the SAT."

"So did I."

"Braggy."

"You are," he teases. "OK fine, you're on."

"Yesss," she hisses.

Click-click-click. Click-click. Click.

Her stride progressively slows as they walk until she's trailing a full step behind.

She groans, "My feet hurt. This is torture. And don't tell me to take off my shoes. I learned the hard way in New York that you, under no circumstances, walk barefoot in a city."

"Trust me, I would never advise you to take off your shoes here," he says, stopping to let her catch up.

In a stroke of inspiration he stoops down in front of her and glances back at her over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm sick of your complaining. Hop on."

"Wait, you're offering me a piggyback ride?! Aren't you worried I'll hurt your back? I did just eat about a pound of fries back there."

"I can squat three hundred pounds."

"Braggy," she mutters.

"You are. Are you getting on or not?"

She bites her lip, a sly smile blooming, and does a little bunny hop onto his back. She wraps her arms tightly around his neck and, as promised, he straightens up to full height with little effort.

"Thank you," she says softly, resting her head down on his shoulder.

"Don't lose your shoes," he says and hoists her up higher on his back, securing her in place.

As they walk farther away from the bustle of the theater district, the cacophony of the street gradually dies down. The streetlamps become more sparse so the street is bathed in a muted, yellow glow. It's comforting somehow – the dark and the quiet. There's something about the weight of her on his back, all four of her limbs wrapped tight around his body. There's something about the tiny puffs of breath on his nape, the tickle of her hair, the vibration of her throat as she quietly hums the songs from the show.

My little monkey, he thinks with affection.

"It's like I'm your Yoda," she says with a giggle.

Or that.

"Thank you for taking me," she says, nuzzling his shoulder in such an endearing, childlike way it makes his heart clench. "The best birthday gift, maybe ever. _Two friends on a perfect day_," she talk-sings just behind his ear.

He grins, wider than he would if she could see him. "Yeah, a perfect day," he agrees.

"Even if it emotionally obliterated me," she adds.

"You mean _us_."

"Yeah, us," she murmurs.


	10. Hold Me

**August 6, 2020**

Rebecca's first thought when she rouses from sleep on what should be an unremarkable Thursday morning is that today is going to be a bad day. A very bad day. Specifically, a very bad brain day. Tyler – the metaphorical darkness himself – has smothered her in a suffocating bear hug from which there's no easy escape. He's staked his claim on her mental and emotional state before she even has a chance to open her eyes and swipe at her phone to silence the insistent, deafening alarm.

She aggressively tugs the blankets over her head with a groan and the motion sends her phone tumbling off the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a clatter.

She briefly contemplates staying home from work. Back in her Whitefeather days, she wouldn't have thought twice about it. Even when she was a senior partner, she allowed herself mental health days. Nathaniel and Darryl (to a lesser degree) held down the fort in her absence, and she never worried about the work getting done. Now, however, she's the sole proprietor. The business lives and dies with her. She wanted to take control of her own destiny – create her own happiness – by opening Rebetzel's and she has to live with the realities of that choice.

Psychological pain never feels quite as valid and excusable as physical pain to her. At her New York firm, her fellow lawyers would have scoffed at the idea of missing work due to mental distress. At least with physical pain, there is always something concrete to pinpoint. _I have cramps. I have a migraine. I tripped over the sidewalk curb while texting and sprained my ankle._ But generalized anxiety and dread? That's a head-brain-chest-stomach combo she's not confident neurotypical people can fully grasp.

Dr. Akopian assures her that once she fully transitions to the new medication, these days will occur much less frequently. Even though Rebecca knows rationally that this is true, in the midst of it, it's hard to keep that perspective. Weaning off the old drug while simultaneously slowly introducing the new one creates two opportunities for imbalance every day.

She's a damn liar, Rebecca thinks bitterly as she peels back the blankets and throws her legs over the side of the bed. Or rather, her mind song Dr. Akopian is a liar. Medication sure feels like a pretty big fucking deal. Rebecca has been grappling with the same let-down as when she received her diagnosis and expected her life to improve with the flick of a switch. Just like everything else when it comes to mental illness, it's not an instant fix. It's a process. Trial-and-error. And today she feels like one big fat error.

California natives are always talking about "the big one." The earthquake to end all earthquakes. Whenever there is a cluster of smaller quakes in a short time period, the water cooler buzzes with speculation about how a big one is imminent. Rebecca knows with an unshakeable surety that her own "big one" is coming. Not an earthquake. An anxiety attack. Meltdown. Panic attack. Call it whatever you want. All the small ones she's had over the past few weeks were only a precursor to the one she knows is looming. She feels it deep in her bones. She's a ticking timebomb and the slightest provocation is going to trigger it and push her over the edge. And the worst part is that she won't be able to control when or where it happens.

Making a decision of any magnitude feels insurmountable, so she dresses herself in the first floral-print silk blouse she sees in her closet and a pair of worn jeans that sits atop a pile of dirty laundry. She sprays the roots of her hair with dry shampoo and throws it up into a messy ponytail. Mascara and a little eyebrow filling is as far as she gets with her makeup before she loses motivation and forces herself out the door. What a great way to cut down on getting ready time, she thinks ruefully. Put in no effort whatsoever.

When she takes her place behind the counter at Rebetzel's, AJ takes one look at her and mutters, "Oh lord, it's gonna be one of those days."

On any other day she would zing him back with equal fervor, but she's way too tired to come up with a snarky witticism on the fly.

"Can you get the plain and cinnamon out of the back? Thanks," she says softly, adjusting the strap around her neck.

"Are you OK?" AJ asks hesitantly.

She braces both hands on the counter's edge and closes her eyes. "No, I'm not. But I just need to get through this day, so can you please do what I say for once without talking back?"

AJ raises his eyebrows and says, "You got it, boss," before disappearing into the back room.

Rebecca lets out a long, slow exhale. "Get yourself together," she whispers to herself, eyes still tightly closed, knuckles turning white. "Everything is fine. Nothing has happened. It's all in your head. Just Tyler trying to ruin your day. Act normal. S-a-s-s-y."

"Hey," Nathaniel says.

Her eyes snap open and Nathaniel is suddenly in front of her, a concerned look in his eyes.

"Hi," she replies, modulating her voice into what she thinks is a _normal_ tone.

"What's wrong?"

"Damn it," she curses under her breath. Hiding existential pain is harder than she thought. She sighs and begins to explain, "Bad brain day. Really bad br –"

Nathaniel's phone chirps in his pocket. He searches for it in his suit jacket and holds up a pointer finger. "Hold that thought," he says, "Sorry, big meeting at nine. One second."

He turns his back to her and taps on the screen. "Nathaniel Plimpton," he states with authority into the phone.

AJ returns to the counter with a large tray of warm pretzels and starts stocking the display case. Observing Nathaniel pacing a few feet away, he says, "Oh good, the Rebecca whisperer is here. Maybe there's hope."

Defensive, Rebecca folds her arms across her chest and says, "I'm having a bad day. I'm allowed to have bad days, aren't I?"

"You've had a lot of them lately," he quips. Not for the first time, Rebecca worries that maybe their dual roles as employee/employer and roommates is not the best arrangement.

Nathaniel ends his call and returns to the counter. Noticing her displeased frown, he offers as explanation, "The owners of Sugar Face are selling the property and retiring to Arizona, so we're helping them with the legalities of the sale."

Rebecca face wilts and she whines, "Sugar Face is closing? Could this day get any worse?"

"Sorry, what were you saying before? Bad brain day?"

"Yeah, I woke up and –"

His phone chimes once again from his inner breast pocket, interrupting her. "Hold that thought again," he says. His mind clearly elsewhere, he quickly checks the caller ID and apologizes while backing away from the counter, "Sorry again. I have to take this. It's going to be a long meeting, but I'll come down during the break and we'll talk. I promise."

Rebecca nods and waves him away. Though he's not listening, she says with annoyance, "Go. Go to your big, dumb meeting that's more important than me." As he's stepping into the elevator with his phone pressed tightly to his ear, she gives his back an exaggerated eye roll.

Some supposed best friend he is.

All morning she tries to shake off the nervous, panicky energy that's been following her around like an ominous dark cloud. She's even having slight physical tremors – that's a new one – which exponentially exacerbates her dread that something terrible is right around the corner. AJ keeps his distance and his walking on eggshells just agitates her even more.

Around eleven o'clock, the mail gets delivered and a manila envelope catches her attention. The return address is her accountant who she pays by-the-hour to create her monthly financial statements. The last three emails from him remain unread in her inbox, so he must have resorted to mailing the statements.

She tears open the envelope. With the first half of the year in the books, she has to face the music.

Her monthly file includes a detailed income statement and balance sheet. It all looks like gibberish to her, but she's learned that the number at the bottom of the income statement – where it says Operating Margin – that's the number she needs to know. That's the number that tells her if she's making or losing money. All she prays for is that that number is positive, even if it's by one dollar.

(It has never been positive.)

-$983.13

She sighs with relief. That's not too bad. She can deal with a thousand dollar loss. That's just a fancy pair of shoes or two in her former life. Only a fraction of the money she wasted trying to get Josh to notice her.

Then she realizes she's looking at the June results. Her year-to-date losses are one column to the right.

-$34,575.06

"Oh god," she exhales, the second syllable disappearing into a squeak.

Rebecca's breathing becomes labored, causing AJ to stop wiping down the counter and stare at her.

"It's nothing," she says, shoving the papers back in the envelope, "Um, results from my doctor saying I have a normal pap."

"Doctors still _mail_ pap smear results?"

Rebecca sets the papers down behind the counter and backs slowly away, "I'm going to take a little, um, bathroom break. Bye."

She rushes the rest of the way to the women's lobby bathroom, which is only ten steps around the corner from Rebetzel's. The bathroom has become her own private three-stall oasis when she needs a minute to herself. Since each office in the building has its own dedicated bathroom, other visitors are rare.

She tucks herself into the stall farthest from the door and jiggles the lock into place.

"Oh god," she whispers and leans her head back against the panel of the stall, "Why? Why did I think I could do this? I'm so stupid. How could I be this stupid?"

Her heartbeat quickens, hammering hard in her chest. She frantically digs in her apron pocket for her phone and swipes up to unlock it. The shaking in her hands intensifies as she tries to open up her messages. She doesn't even know who she's going to text or what she's going to text, but it feels like an emergency and she doesn't trust herself to be alone. But her hands are too unsteady and she fumbles the phone, dropping it straight into the toilet bowl. The water from the toilet splashes up onto the hem of her apron and she recoils.

"Oh my god," she cries, her breathing speeding up impossibly fast. It could be a heart attack or a panic attack or maybe somehow she's drowning in an invisible sea of water. All she knows is it feels like someone is grinding the heel of their shoe into her windpipe, cutting off all her air, and she can't for the life of her get her heartbeat to slow the fuck down.

She doesn't know how long she stands there hyperventilating, desperate for anything to anchor her to reality. Minutes? Hours? Both seem equally plausible in her blurred consciousness.

"Where is she?" Nathaniel's muffled voice echoes from the lobby, cutting through the noises in her head.

Oh, thank god. She wants to scream out to him – "help me" – but she's paralyzed and her voice won't cooperate with her brain.

AJ replies nonchalantly, desensitized to her emotional distress, "She's freaking out in the bathroom about something. I don't know. Wait . . . you can't go in there!"

The door creaks open and Nathaniel tentatively says, "Rebecca?"

She can't speak but there's no way he can't hear her with how loudly she's wheezing and how deafening her heartbeat must be. She would put _The Tell-Tale Heart_ to shame.

Nathaniel ventures inside the bathroom and stands outside her stall.

He knocks and gently says, "Open the door."

She fumbles with the flimsy lock and slides it out from its latch. Nathaniel squeezes his way inside the stall and closes the door behind him, slipping the lock back into place. If she weren't in such a dire state, she would laugh at how he thinks closing the door will conceal his presence when his head is so indiscreetly peeking over the top of the stall.

Once inside, his eyes journey over her body from her damp forehead to the terrified look in her eyes to her hands which won't stop trembling.

"Rebecca," he whispers like an apology. He takes both her wrists and tugs them around his waist, drawing her near. "Come here," he says, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and palming her neck with the other to bring her head to his chest.

"What happened?" he asks, though he'll get no answer, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was so distracted."

His chest expands and contracts under her cheek at a steady pace, and she puts all of her dwindling energy into matching her breath to his.

"You're shaking," he murmurs into her hair.

That's when the tears come. It's like a fever breaking when they come. She sucks a big breath of air into her lungs and finds her voice.

"I'm broke," she rasps.

He ducks his head down to hear her better. "What?"

"Rebetzel's. I'm broke. I can barely pay my rent," she cries, "I'm going to lose everything. I'm such a failure."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head and tightens his arms around her. "No, you're not. You're not a failure."

She nods her head against his chest, her tears staining his shirt. "Yes, I am. I am thirty-one and I have _nothing_ to show for it. My business is losing money. I'll never be able to pay back my business loan. My songs are mediocre, at best. I have a garbage singing voice and barely existent piano skills. I don't have a boyfriend. I haven't had sex in god knows how long. And I'm going to be homeless, living in a cardboard box, because I am a failure at everything in my life."

"You are not going to be homeless," he whispers, "I would never, ever let that happen." He leans away to look into her eyes. "You know you can come back to the firm anytime. There will always be a job for you. And I can lend you money. As much as you need. If you need a place to live, you could move in with me for awhile –"

"What? No, no, no," she protests, shaking her head, "It's not . . . you don't get it."

"What don't I get?"

"I don't want you to swoop in and fix everything with your money. It's not about the money," she says, frustrated, "It's about me. I am Rebetzel's. I want to succeed. On my own terms."

He picks a sweaty tendril of hair off her forehead while she lets out a shaky exhale, relieved she can breathe normally again.

"Sorry. I get it. I do. I just . . . when I see you upset, all I want is to make it better," he says, wiping away the moisture under her eyes with the pad of his thumb. "Sometimes I wish I didn't have my father, so I could have chosen my own path like you did. You're brave. Braver than me."

And in that moment, as he's looking into her eyes with a breathtaking tenderness, she realizes how deeply he supports her. Believes in her. Cares about her. With sudden clarity, she sees how freely he gives all of himself to her.

He shows up for her at every single one of her open mic nights, listening with rapt attention to every single note. He pushes her when she needs a push. He backs off when she needs space. He stands up for her, defends her, sometimes without even saying a word. He holds her when she needs holding. He carries her when she needs carrying. He sings and dances and makes a fool out of himself just to make her smile. He picks the olives out of her salad before she takes her first bite. He rubs her feet at the end of a hard day. He –

"Did you drop your phone?" he asks, glancing down into the toilet.

"Yeah."

He rolls up the sleeve of his jacket and plunges his hand into the toilet, scooping up the phone from the bottom of the bowl.

Speechless, she opens her mouth but no words come out. "Uh –"

And that's it. The moment. (There's always a moment.) She knows.

She loves him.

A warm sensation washes over her from head-to-toe, a soft glow illuminating every cell in her body.

She loves him. Of course she does.

Nathaniel lets himself out of the stall and sets her phone down next to the sink. He washes his hands, then pulls several paper towels from the dispenser to dry off both his hands and her phone. All the while, Rebecca watches him adoringly from the frame of the bathroom stall, her brain still catching up to her heart.

"There," he says, swiping the screen, "still works. And don't worry, they clean these bathrooms practically on the hour. Believe it or not, I've had to rescue my phone from much worse places when I was in Guatemala."

He offers her the phone and she takes it, her fingers brushing against his palm.

"Thanks," she says softly.

He flicks his wrist to check his watch.

"I have to get back to this meeting. Are you going to be OK?"

She clears her throat. "Yeah. I'm . . . I'm more than OK. Thank you for finding me."

He bends down and lightly grasps her elbow. Knowing what's coming, she leans into him as he presses a kiss to her cheek and whispers, "Chin up, beautiful," next to her ear.

Her stomach clenches at his words and she squeezes his forearm, not wanting to let him go. But she does, holding on to him as long as possible before he slips out of her grasp as he walks away.

As he's pushing open the bathroom door, a woman dressed in a sharply tailored black suit tries to enter at the exact same time and he accidentally bumps her shoulder.

"Sorry, uh, excuse me," he mutters as the woman gives him dubious look.

Rebecca chuckles but quickly tamps it down when the woman gives her a disapproving side eye.

After splashing some cool water on her face, Rebecca takes a moment to stare at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are red and puffy, and her wet eyelashes clump together in an unflattering way. Her cheeks and chest are flushed, though it's not from crying. But despite her disheveled appearance, on the inside she's at peace. Though she can't prove it, she believes she's made it through the worst of the transition and it will be only downhill from this moment on.

Minutes later, she assumes her place behind the Rebetzel's counter with a secretive smile on her lips.

"Afternoon quickie?" AJ quips, noticing her shift in mood.

"Ha," she barks, "Not exactly."

His tone slightly more serious, he asks, "Are you OK? Really."

"Yes. Much better now."

"The Rebecca whisperer strikes again," he jokes. In response, she grabs a dish towel and playfully smacks his arm with it.

Later that afternoon, feeling more calm than she has in weeks, Rebecca takes off her apron and ventures up the elevator to the third floor. Visiting her former office is always strange. It's strange in the way visiting a high school years after graduation is strange. It's familiar yet foreign. Every corner holds a memory, but new people are inhabiting that same space, making memories of their own.

She gives a timid wave to Tim and Jim as she passes by their desks to get to Nathaniel's office.

When she reaches the threshold, he's sitting at his desk in front of his open laptop, pointing at the bluish screen. Though there's no one in sight, he's speaking softly, "We're going to depose the Division President, then the CFO. That means Chief Financial Officer. She manages all the money for the business. Really the most important role in the C-suite, if you ask me."

Rebecca knocks gently on the doorframe to catch his attention.

Nathaniel swivels in his chair to reveal Hebby, who was previously obscured by his laptop screen, sitting in his lap. Hebby babbles a string of syllables that vaguely resembles the last few words he said. Inflection and everything.

"Hi," Rebecca says, suddenly nervous. She takes a few steps into the office and wrings her fingers together.

"Hey," he replies warmly, "You never come up here."

"Yeah well, um, I wanted to see you."

"You wanted to see me?"

Hebby wriggles in his arms and grabs at his tie.

"No, no, no," he mutters, flawlessly shifting his hold on her and righting her back into a sitting position atop his leg.

"Sorry, are you babysitting? What's happening?"

"Oh, sometimes Darryl's daycare falls through. He had a meeting, so he dropped her quite literally into my lap," he says with a chuckle. "I was giving her a little lesson on depositions. I figure at least half of her brain is a brilliant legal mind. So, you know. Start 'em early."

"You like babies now?" she asks, incredulous.

"Not really, but I'm the only one Darryl trusts to keep her contained. Apparently she's nearing the 'terrible twos' and I'm the only one who can handle this squirmy little monkey. And anyway, she's," he pauses and glances down at Hebby's mop of unruly curls, "she's kinda you, so I guess I can make an exception in this case."

"Oh," she says, breathless, the sentiment hitting her right in the heart, "Well, I just wanted to say thank you for earlier."

Feigning indifference, he says, "We don't have to talk about it. It's fine."

"I want to. I want to talk about it."

"Oh," he utters, as if the thought had never occurred to him.

Hebby grabs a pen from his desktop and stabs it alarmingly close to a place between his legs that could do serious damage.

"Whoa!" Nathaniel yelps and steadies Hebby's arm. "Man, you two are dangerous with a pen, huh?" he jokes and confiscates the object from her. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Um –"

His eyes dart to the corner of his laptop and he says, "Actually, can we rain check this conversation?"

"Oh. Sure."

"You need to get out of my office."

"Excuse me?"

"Get out," he asserts again, a playful grin at his lips.

"Sorry, do you have yet another super important meeting today?" she asks, irritated.

"No, you have your appointment. Right? If you don't leave now, you're going to be late."

She pulls her phone out of her back pocket to check the time. Indeed, it's fifteen minutes before her weekly appointment with Dr. Akopian.

"We talk all the time. Go. I'm not speaking another word to you. Get out of my office, Bunch."

"Nathaniel –"

He pulls his forefinger and thumb across his mouth in a zipper motion.

Twenty minutes later, Rebecca plops down on Dr. Akopian's office couch in a daze. She drove there on autopilot, her mind racing the entire way as she tried to process the maelstrom of emotions flowing through her.

"Rebecca, you've been sitting there for a full three minutes without saying a word. What's wrong? Are you still experiencing symptoms from the med changes?"

"I am. I was. But that's not it," she replies softly.

Rebecca closes her eyes and lets out a prolonged exhale.

"What is it?" Dr. Akopian asks.

"I'm going to do an emotional scan," Rebecca says, sitting up straighter. She runs both her hands in front of her body, from the tip of her head to her lap. "I'm tired. But happy. Also, anxious. A little scared. But also warm and glowy?"

When she opens her eyes, Dr. Akopian is pursing her lips and her brow is furrowed in complete confusion.

"It's Nathaniel," Rebecca says.

"Oh," Dr. Akopian replies, leaning forward, intrigued, "Go on."

"I think . . . no, I know I have feelings for him."

Dr. Akopian grins and leans back in her chair. "Finally," she mutters to herself, playing with the ends of her long, bulky necklace.

"What?"

"Nothing. Keep going."

Rebecca huffs out a tiny breath and says, "I think I love him."

"Oh. Wow." Dr. Akopian raises both her eyebrows, in shock at her frank admission.

"Not best-friend love. Like real love. Boy-girl love. Which I realize is heteronormative, but you know what I mean."

"I do. I would say that's great news, but you don't seem entirely happy about it."

"I am happy. I am. But I'm also afraid."

"What are you afraid of?"

Rebecca sighs. "What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if I tell him how I feel and it ruins everything? And what if he _does_ feel the same way? What if we date and I screw it up like I always do? Then what?" In a small voice, she adds, "All I keep thinking is that I don't want to lose him."

"Those are all very understandable fears," Dr. Akopian reassures her, "This friendship has been a very positive, stable part of your life these past six months."

Rebecca bites her lip and nods. "The man he's become . . ." she trails off, her smile returning, "He's been so thoughtful and caring and sweet with me. All those hard edges have softened."

"Sometimes when we go through big, life-changing experiences, we can gain a whole new perspective."

"OK. Great. But we need to circle back to the fact that," Rebecca pauses to cup her hands around her mouth to loudly project, "relationships do not work for me."

"This friendship has been working for you, hasn't it?"

"You know it has."

"And has he given you any indication that he feels the same way?"

Rebecca buries her face in both her hands. "Ugh, I don't know," she groans, her voice muffled by her hands.

"He had very strong romantic feelings for you in the past," she offers.

Rebecca drags her hands down her face and then drops them into her lap. "I know. Some days he looks at me and I swear I see this glimmer," she says, pinching together her thumb and pointer finger, "of something more than friendship."

"But . . ."

"But then he'll say something the next moment that makes me think I imagined it. Or that I was projecting or reading into things or something. I truly don't know. So please, please tell me what to do," she pleads, threading her fingers together in a prayer-like gesture.

"I can't tell you what to do. You know what your patterns are. If you're worried about repeating past mistakes, the place to start is being conscious of those mistakes and making different choices."

"So you're saying I shouldn't go straight to his apartment and flying squirrel into his arms?"

"Maybe not this time."

Rebecca smiles weakly, her eyes downcast. "I really don't want to mess this up," she says softly, "I want to do better this time."

Dr. Akopian crosses to sit next to her on the couch and takes one of Rebecca's hands between her own. "You _can_ do better. You're still coming to terms with your own feelings. You don't need to rush into anything. Let things develop naturally. I think you'll find that, in time, you'll get the clarity you need."

After giving Dr. Akopian a fierce goodbye hug, Rebecca leaves the office with a renewed sense of empowerment. It's all in her control. She can make different choices. Choose a different path.

Though the temptation to immediately find him and gush out all her feelings is strong – overwhelming isn't an exaggeration – she resists. She drives directly back home with no intermediate stops.

Her homework is to write out all her feelings in her journal. Between her anxieties about the future of Rebetzel's, her rollercoaster of emotions from changing medications, and now her burgeoning feelings for Nathaniel, there's plenty to vomit out into the notebook. An hour flies by like it's mere seconds as she fills up page after page of stream-of-consciousness ramblings.

Afterward, she does feel somewhat better. But the compulsion to seek him out is still powerful and settles like a lead weight in her stomach.

She picks up her phone and begins to type.

_Are you home? Alone?_

Delete. Delete. Delete.

_Want to come over? We could watch TV. Or make out. No pressure. Also I love you._

Nope. Delete.

_All I want to do is kiss your hot, dumb face._

Definitely not. Delete.

She sighs. Just when she's about to bury her phone under her pillow, her phone vibrates with an incoming message.

_**How are you feeling?**_

She stares at the phone for a long time, Dr. Akopian's words ringing in her ear. He texted her first, she reasons. There's no harm in responding. She's not rushing in to anything. She's merely responding to a friend in a timely fashion.

_Better._

_Thank you for being there for me today._

_And putting your hand in a toilet._

_**I'd stick my hand in the toilet for you anytime.**_

She smiles fondly down at her phone. Why does he have to make it so hard for her to resist?

Her fingers start typing a response before her brain can tell them to stop.

_Can I come over?_

Send.

Wait, no send! She lets out a tiny shriek and drops her phone onto the bed like it's a hot potato.

Recover. She has to recover, she thinks frantically. Scooping her phone back up, she types furiously.

_Later, I mean._

_Next week?_

_We could finally play Scrabble. Study up on bingos, Stanford._

She holds her breath and bites on the tip of her thumb nail while she waits in anticipation for his response.

_**You're on, Harvard. Don't need to study. Name the time and place.**_


	11. You Win

**August 15, 2020**

It never fails. The _moment_ Nathaniel feels comfortable in his relationship with Rebecca, that's when she decides to change everything. No matter how much they have both grown and matured – both as individuals and together – it's the one thing he can count on. As soon as he thinks he understands the rules of their relationship, that's when she throws the entire rulebook out the window.

Consequently, he's scrambling. The quiet Saturday night, which he had decided to spend in solitude with a documentary and scotch on the rocks, got turned upside down when Rebecca called to invite herself over. A drop-in isn't altogether unusual for her. Unlike some memorable past encounters, at least she called first instead of showing up at his door unannounced. What's given him true pause, though, is her strange behavior since the day she cried in his arms in the lobby bathroom.

All week she's been vibrating with the pent-up energy of a spring-loaded wind-up toy. After months (or, it could be argued, years) of cultivating their almost effortless intimacy, she's suddenly on edge around him. Jumpy. Restless. Communication has become erratic, alternating between an overabundance of texting and calling to flat-out ghosting for days at a time.

In his head he's come up with a multitude of explanations. She's nervous about her next performance. She has anxiety about the future of her business. Maybe she's still transitioning to her new medication.

But none of the explanations account for the flirting.

He thinks he must be imagining it. The way she's been playfully shoving and grabbing him, touching his arm from across the Rebetzel's counter. (Though they _do_ touch each other a lot.) The way she's been giggling at his jokes, twirling the ends of her hair with her fingers while AJ looks on with disdain. (Though she's always found him funny, right?) The way she bounces on her heels when she sees him coming, her smile beaming. (Though why wouldn't she be happy to see him?)

It reminds him of another time in their lives, when her flirting (and his) were shameless and all their intimate moments had to be stolen, shrouded in secrets.

As he nervously scrapes his hands through his spiky hair in front of the mirror, he can't suppress the nervous flutter in his stomach. Her unpredictability is unsettling, yes, but there's also an excitement layered underneath. An anticipation for what could happen. Before she arrives, he manages to quickly tidy up, cramming stray dirty glasses into the dishwasher and throwing discarded t-shirts in the direction of the laundry hamper.

When he opens the door to Rebecca leaning coyly against the doorframe with Scrabble (Deluxe Edition) under her arm, his curiosity is piqued even further. No one would describe her as dressed up, per se, but after months of her showing up at his door bare-faced and practically pajama-clad, her appearance certainly attracts his attention. She's wearing a royal blue sleeveless blouse with a conspicuously deep V-neck, skinny black jeans, and black ankle boots. And makeup. Nothing dramatic or flashy. Just enough for him to notice. Her eyes are rimmed with a tasteful amount of smudged eyeliner and her lips are a kissable, rosy hue. Her hair is shiny, bouncy, begging for his fingers.

"Hi," she murmurs, her voice like honey.

"Hi. I see tonight's the night. We're finally gonna do it."

Her eyes widen and her cool facade falters. "Wh - what?"

He points to the game. "Play Scrabble?"

"Oh! Right," she says with a nervous laugh.

"You look. . ."

Her eyebrows raise expectantly as he contemplates the end of his sentence.

". . .pretty. Were you out somewhere? Hot date?" He prays for her to say _no_ and simultaneously wishes he didn't care.

"Maybe," she says, coquettish, as she brushes past him into his apartment.

Closing the door behind her, he remarks, "Well, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't be here right now if it was such a hot date."

"OK fine," she grunts, plopping the game down on his coffee table, "I wasn't on a date. Can't a girl just want to look pretty sometimes?!"

Nathaniel holds both his hands up in surrender. "Forget I said anything."

Rebecca kneels next to the table and starts to unbox the game.

"Usually when I go to _your _apartment I bring wine or food or. . ."

"Yeah, well, I'm broke, remember?" she fires off without even looking up from the board.

She says it so flippantly now, like he's supposed to accept this fact as normal. But he can't. Each time she reminds him, the urge to do _something_ rears its ugly head. Money is the one thing he has in excess and he wouldn't blink an eye at lending her a hefty sum. Watching her struggle day in and day out without stepping in makes his stomach churn. It makes him feel helpless, powerless. And yet, he understands what it means to have pride.

Holding up the bottle of scotch, he asks, "Want some of the hard stuff?"

Her head whips up and when she sees the bottle she lets out a nervous laugh. "Right. Sure. Don't want you drinking alone. It'll be sad enough when you lose to me in a landslide."

He pours Rebecca a tasting-size amount over an enormous cube of ice, then refreshes his own tumbler.

"What about you? Any hot dates lately I should know about?" she asks as she reaches into the cloth bag of tiles and pulls out her starting seven.

"Nah. I deleted that brainless dating app from my phone. There _is_ a woman in my life, though."

Her eyes quickly dart up from her tiles, surprised. "Yeah? Who?"

"Maybe you know her. She's smart. Sweet. Curly brown hair. _Very_ short," he lists, ticking off each adjective with his fingers while shooting her a mischievous grin.

She smiles shyly back.

"And just starting to form full sentences."

"Huh?"

"Hebby," he says, "I was talking about Hebby. That was my attempt at a joke."

"Oh" she exhales, "Oh. Of course."

He crosses the room, hands her the glass with her paltry portion, and sits beside her so his back butts up against the front of the couch.

"Cheers," he says, offering up his glass, "To finally playing a word game – literally, for once, and not figuratively. May the best _man _win."

With a pointed scowl she clinks her glass against his, then tilts it back against her lips.

"I hope you haven't forgotten what a cunning linguist I am," he adds with a smirk.

Rebecca chokes. A sputtering sound erupts from her throat and she coughs several times into her hand.

"Whoa, slow down, tiger," he says, rubbing her upper back, "You have to sip. You can't just toss this stuff back."

She swallows a few times to ease the rest of the alcohol down. As she regains control of her breathing, his hand drifts upward with each stroke until his fingers run through the tips of her silken hair. Once his fingers graze the nape of her neck, she meets his eyes and he tears his hand away like he's been burned.

"Let's, um, let's start," he says and picks up the scorecard and miniature pencil from the game box.

Rebecca shifts her focus back to her rack of tiles while he reaches into the bag to draw his own.

"Ladies first."

On the center star, Rebecca plays P-A-M-P-E-R.

"Not bad. Lucky first draw," he comments and jots down her score.

Luck is on his side as well. He quickly plays G-I-V-E-S by adding a S to the end of her opening word. His speed flusters her, her eyes going wide with panic. A little wrinkle forms at the base of her forehead as she concentrates on her tiles. She puts both her elbows on the table and leans forward. The position blesses him with a tantalizing view of her cleavage, which he hasn't had the pleasure of seeing in such full display in quite some time.

Ah. So that's her angle, he thinks. Play dirty. Drive him to distraction.

The strategy is all to familiar. In the days of the affair, Rebecca played a game of her own design with him in their shared office: How long will it take for Nathaniel to crack? She would tease him relentlessly throughout the day, pulling out every trick in the book until he couldn't stand it anymore. Some of it was so obvious he couldn't believe others weren't noticing. She would drop a paperclip onto the floor in front of his desk, then bend over slowly to pick it up. Bite the tip of her highlighter while making wicked eye contact, one eyebrow cocked skyward. Uncross and recross her legs while wearing a short skirt, knowing full well he could see everything through the glass desktop.

"Pen in your pocket?" was her well-worn refrain while her eyes, silently daring him, drifted downward.

All the while, she teased him with this infuriatingly sexy, impish smirk. She played him like a fiddle and he greedily lapped up every hint of interest.

Now, however, her trademark smirk is nowhere to be found. Her eyes dart from her rack to the board, as she mentally calculates her next move. Her show of skin appears to be an unintentional side effect of their respective sitting positions. No deliberate manipulation on her part as far as he can ascertain.

Unhappy but resigned, Rebecca lays down P-R-O-U-D using the R in P-A-M-P-E-R. She also gets an additional few points from P-E, though the play won' enough to make a dent in their point disparity. She sits back on her legs with a defeated sigh.

"You're going to have to do better than that if you're going to beat me."

Her rebuttal is to stick out her tongue.

"Ouch," he laughs, "You wound me." In record turnover time, he plays L-A-X. "That's L-A-X, plus P-A, plus A-X. . ."

"I know, I know," she mumbles, annoyed.

"Nineteen plus seventeen is thirty-six," he rattles off, "To recap, after only two rounds I have a healthy lead at sixty-six points verses your measly forty-five."

"Got it. Thanks," she says sarcastically.

Much to her frustration, she continues to struggle. After about a minute of thinking, she starts drumming on the tops of her tiles with her fingernails, which are painted a loud, fire engine red.

"Fuck me," she mutters under her breath.

The words send a little tingle up his spine. He squeezes his eyes shut for a quick moment, warding off the memories of all the times she's said those same words in a very different context. Memories of those blood red nails scratching up his back, pulling down on his neck, unbuckling his belt.

She throws up her arms. "I give up," she whines.

"No you don't," he scoffs.

Practically slamming the tiles down in frustration, she plays C-A-T parallel to L-A-X. The placement also creates words P-A-T and L-A.

"We should have played Boggle." She puckers her lips into an exaggerated pout.

"You still got nineteen points out of that," he offers, suddenly feeling protective, "Plus, it's still early in the game. Relax."

Nathaniel plays W-O next to P-A-M-P-E-R-S, making W-A-X and O-M as a consequence.

"Alright, what's the stupid score?" she asks with venom. "How badly am I losing?"

He almost doesn't want to say it and dampen her mood even further. "Ninety-six to sixty-four."

The silence that lingers until her next move is tense and heavy. Without saying a word, she plays A-C-H-I-E-V-E off of the I in G-I-V-E-S. The move has the potential to close some of the gap between their scores. She's still not entirely pleased – that much is clear from her modest frown – but she also seems slightly less despondent than her previous turn.

That is, until he sees it.

She set him up for a triple word score just one row to the right. If Nathaniel can make a word by adding a letter to the end of hers – making _achieves_ or _achiever_ or _achieved _– then he's destined for a high-scoring play.

As soon as he spots it, his eyes dart from the spot up to her eyes. Her eyes immediately go wide in recognition of her error. She scrambles to her knees and grabs his forearm.

She tugs, pleading between giggles, "No, no, no! I take it back! I take it back!"

"No mercy, Bunch. Rules are rules," he scolds, "You can't take your eye off the ball."

"You are such a dick, you know that?" She releases his arm and sinks back onto her knees.

He shoots her a self-satisfied grin and adds R to A-C-H-I-E-V-E and plays R-I-N-G.

With relish, he picks up the pencil and scoring pad. "That's . . . one hundred sixty-five to ninety-four."

She drags both her hands down her face theatrically and lets out a loud groan.

He leans back and grabs a pillow off the couch, then offers it to her. "You need to scream into this?"

With a squeal, she snatches the pillow out of his hand and proceeds to hit him in the face. Though she's losing even worse than before, it seems like the absurdity of her loss has tickled her and brightened her mood. After withstanding several plush blows to the face, he catches the pillow mid-thwack and tears it out of her grasp.

"Assaulted in my own home," he says between laughs.

"You know you deserved that. Alright, your move, hotshot."

Nathaniel surveys the game board.

P-R-O-U-D

A-C-H-I-E-V-E-R

Maybe he's reading too much into it, but he can't help imbuing his own meaning onto the words. Is it possible her words are an unconscious manifestation of her thoughts? Anxieties? As it has several times over the course of the week, the image of her gazing up at him with her sad, red-rimmed eyes takes hold. How she looked so small tucked into the stall. So scared.

He tries to snap out of it. It's his move and she's waiting.

G-I-V-E-S

R-I-N-G

The ring.

As soon as the idea pops into his head, he springs up to his feet.

"Sorry, hold on one second. I need to get something," he says over his shoulder.

Running on pure adrenaline, his feet carry him to his bedroom. To his closet. To the safe. He punches in the code – 0-4-1-8 – and the long-unused door unlatches with a pop. Without wasting a second, he grabs the black velvet box and returns to his spot beside Rebecca.

He plops the box down on the coffee table right in the middle of the board. Understandably, Rebecca's mouth drops open in shock.

"I want you to have this" he says excitedly, as if he's received divine inspiration from the gods.

She shakes her head, confused. "What? What are you saying?"

"Hear me out. I bought this for _you_," he explains, resting his hand on top of the box, "It's yours. We could sell it and you could use the money for your business. And it wouldn't be charity or a loan or anything like that because, in a way, it already belongs to you."

"Um, I don't know," she says, her voice wavering. Her eyes are affixed on the box, openly staring.

"Do you . . . You can open it if you want."

Her movements hesitant, she gingerly picks up the box. For a moment she simply feels it, running her fingers over the texture of the outside. Then, she tentatively opens it.

"Nathaniel," she gasps, "Oh my god." She clutches at her chest with her free hand, her mouth gaping open in astonishment.

Her reaction is everything he dreamed it would be, just on a year and a half delay.

Much like the Garfinkels, the Plimptons have a family heirloom ring that has been passed down from generation to generation. But this is not that ring. The Plimpton ring is antique and dull and carries the weight of all his family's baggage. No, he wanted a ring that is uniquely her. _Only_ for her. The ring he chose was a radiant-cut solitaire. The large diamond sparkles and gleams in the way he thinks she does. Brilliant, flashy, dramatic. Worthy of everyone's attention.

"I know you have a family ring – I do too, actually – but this one felt like you," he says earnestly.

"Wow," she whispers, her eyes shining with unshed tears, "it's beautiful."

A thoughtful, dreamy expression on her face, she reaches out and tenderly palms his cheek. Her affection sparks an unwanted but very real longing within him. The longing for the future he imagined with her when he picked out that ring. God, it pains him to think of how badly he wanted it.

In darker moments post-breakup, when he had nothing better to do in Guatemala but dwell alone with his thoughts, he questioned whether she ever truly loved him. With the exception of the paltry few weeks they dated, he never felt like he had her whole heart. He was always chasing, chasing, trying to hold on to any little piece of her he could catch. And yet, now, as she looks at him with such tenderness and care, he can't imagine it was entirely one-sided. He has to believe she loved him the best she could at the time.

Buoyed by her reaction, he says in a low voice, "Let me help you with this. If you want it, it's yours. It was meant for you and it's not like I'm ever going to use it, so –"

At those words, her gentle expression falters. She blinks a few times and releases his face, letting her hand slide down into her lap. With a sad frown, she snaps the box shut.

"What's wrong?"

She purses her lips and sets the box back on the table. In the silence, his mind frantically searches for an explanation for her disappointment.

"Rebecca, I promise I'm not trying to steamroll or swoop in with my money. I heard what you said in the bathroom. I'm not trying to say you can't succeed on your own. I know you can."

She swallows hard. Her face is tight, masking hurt.

"I'm sorry. It was . . . it was an impulse. This is different from Rome or Hawaii or . . . I'm not trying to whisk you away or fix everything. I'm not that guy anymore. You know that, right?" he says, panicky.

She nods but won't meet his eyeline and looks vacantly down at her tiles.

"I believe in you, Rebecca. I hope you know that. I hope you know how much you matter to me."

"Stop," she whispers.

"What?"

"It's, um, it's a very sweet gesture. But I don't want . . . I can't accept this."

"OK," he says and cautiously moves the box onto the floor beside him. "I'm sorry."

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for. I appreciate the thought. Really," she assures him, giving him a weak smile.

Nathaniel rubs the back of his neck.

"Let's, um, It's my turn," she says, her voice a little shaky.

"You better pray for a bingo," he says, attempting to resume their regularly-scheduled competitive banter, "because you need it with the lead I have on you."

With renewed determination, she props one elbow on the table and focuses hard on the game board. After several moments of strained silence, she blows a loud, wet raspberry with her lips.

He laughs, relieved by the break in tension.

It's funny, he thinks, how _this_ is part of her he always yearned to have. The quiet domesticity. This level of comfort. All the fiery sex in the supply closest could never substitute for the emotional closeness he wanted, and selfishly trying to fit Mona into that hole only made it worse. Having Rebecca in his apartment doing something as mundane as playing _Scrabble_ on a Saturday night triggers every sentimental impulse in him. It makes him want to pull her close. Fit his nose into the crook of her neck. Envelope her in all four of his limbs.

Suddenly, Rebecca's eyes light up. She claps her hands together, the sound spiking in the silent room. She breaks into the biggest smile he's seen all night.

"Oh no."

"Oh, you are toast, Plimpton," she taunts.

She enthusiastically plays S-C-H-M-U-T-Z just north of A-C-H-I-E-V-E-R, creating Z-A with the A.

"Bingo!" she yells, raising her arms into the air, "I fuckin' bingoed on you, Stanford. Take that!"

"_Schmutz_?"

She balls up her hands into tiny fists and starts punching the sky.

"I challenge. I challenge! That cannot be an official word."

He burrows into the game box and finds her small, red _Scrabble_ dictionary. As he's feverishly paging through the book, Rebecca gets out her phone and starts typing.

"It's not in here," he reports with a smug satisfaction after skimming the appropriate page.

"No, no, no!" she exclaims, reading her phone screen, "Look, it was added to the dictionary in 2014! It counts!"

"Nah ah, _this_ is our dictionary. Those are the rules. It's not my fault you use a decade old dictionary."

In a flash, Rebecca seizes the scoring pad and pencil from the table.

"No, no, no," he protests and grabs for her wrist.

She violently turns away from him, narrowly avoiding his grasp. In response, Nathaniel leaps to his knees. Sensing his intent, Rebecca frantically scoots out from the table and lays the scoring pad on the hardwood floor, as far away from him as she can manage given her limited mobility.

As soon as she sets the pencil to paper, he's on her.

"You little cheater," he teases and catches her bicep.

She lets out a little yelp as he attempts to spin her around, which sends her careening flat onto her back. Using her imbalance as an opportunity to pounce, he takes hold of both her wrists and pins them above her head just as her back makes contact with the floor. She giggles and squirms, nearly slipping out of his grip. Primed all night for competition, he doubles down, anchoring his knees on either side of her hips and applying rougher pressure at her wrists.

Her fingers release the pencil and it clink-clink-clinks onto the hardwood floor and rolls away.

"Ha," he breathes, "I win."

Her shallow, labored breaths puff gently against his face as her flushed chest rapidly rises and falls. Her eyes darken and track over his lips, his Adam's apple. A breathy, whimpering sound escapes from her throat. God, she's all curves and softness and warmth beneath him. And up close she smells like every cozy morning they spent together wrapped in his sheets. Feminine and fresh and vaguely floral.

Would it ruin everything if he . . .?

It would be so easy.

Except it's not easy, is it? Nothing about their romantic relationship was ever easy.

Without consciously conjuring them, his mind leaps back to all of the worst, gut-wrenching moments of their past.

_I'm happy, but it's not real . . . I think I'm good on office supplies – forever . . . All we do when we're together is scheme and cheat and lie . . . I'm just saying that we can't be together or go out or talk on the phone . . . I am bad for you and you are bad for me. So you know what, we are done._

All the times he lost her.

Suddenly breathless, his body finally catches up with his brain and he abruptly releases her wrists.

"Sorry," he mutters, realizing the bulk of his weight is probably smothering her small body. He does a push-up to free her.

She sits up and appears equally shell-shocked, blinking slowly while frozen in place.

"Sorry. You can have the bingo," he says.

Rubbing her hand over her chin, reflective, she says, "I think, um, I think I should go. Yeah."

"Oh. Sure. Of course."

She motions that she's going to clean up the game, but he stops her. "Leave it. I'll get it back to you next time I see you."

At the doorway, she pauses as she always does. But her expression is unreadable and he can't place it. She's not frowning, but her lips are pressed tightly together. She's not crying, but there's a sadness in her eyes. He messed up by offering her the ring. That much is clear. And maybe he crossed a line wrestling her onto the floor. Every move he's made tonight has been wrong wrong wrong, or at least that's how it feels. Is she disappointed? Sad? For how close they've become and how well he knows her now, there are still moments when he desperately wishes he could read her mind. This is one of them.

The night didn't go at all like he expected. Maybe it didn't go the way she planned either.

Falling into their routine, he pecks her on the cheek and whispers, "I'm sorry." A blanket apology for any and all missteps over the course of the evening.

"Bye."

"Bye."

As she turns to walk away, he calls after her, "Hey, uh, you won."

She smiles faintly back at him over her shoulder and whispers to herself, "No. No, I didn't."


	12. Show Up

Death doesn't discriminate

Between the sinners and the saints

It takes and it takes and it takes

We keep living anyway

We rise and we fall and we break

And we make our mistakes

And if there's a reason I'm still alive

When everyone who loves me has died

I'm willing to wait for it

I'm willing to wait for it

"Wait for It", _Hamilton_

**September 11, 2020**

Nathaniel's glowing. From the top of his perfectly-coiffed hair to the tips of his shiny, chestnut dress shoes. He strides confidently out of the lobby elevator mid-morning with pep in his step and a smile as bright as sunshine. Rebecca's chest tightens with pride at the sight of him.

The day of Melissa's hearing couldn't have come soon enough. The process dragged on for what felt like an eternity. Once he returned from Guatemala, Nathaniel took over as lead counsel on a handful of Paula's cases to lighten her load. Rejuvenated from his time away, he hit the ground running, driving Melissa's case forward to this, hopefully, satisfying conclusion. The evidence is airtight and, in roughly an hour, Melissa should be freed from prison. Rebecca wishes she could play hooky to watch it all unfold in person.

"I can't wait to see her face," he says when he approaches the Rebetzel's counter, not needing to provide any context.

"I know," she replies, beaming, and hands him a takeaway coffee cup. "This is a big day. Long time coming."

He accepts the coffee with a grateful smile and continues, "That moment when the judge grants her release . . . _that's_ the moment I live for."

Rebecca can't help but grin – all toothy and goofy – at his infectious, joyous legal euphoria.

AJ emerges from the back room with a tray of Rebecca's newest creation. "Peanut butter and jelly pretzel," he announces as he sets the tray down on the counter, "The monstrosity literally no one asked for."

Rebecca ignores his jab, not breaking eye contact with Nathaniel.

"I want you to know I'm really proud of you," she says with sincerity.

He stops mid-sip of his coffee to gawk at her, surprised. Maybe those are words he hasn't heard in a long time. Maybe those are words he's never heard.

"I never see you as happy as when you're in court standing up for these women. You really shine up there, Nathaniel," she says, echoing the same sentiment he said to her so many months ago at her first open mic. She pauses for effect, hoping he remembers. Those words meant everything to her in that moment and she hopes they carry the same weight for him.

"Wow," he rasps, "Thank you."

"Lord, get a room," AJ mutters under his breath.

Nathaniel's phone chirps in his pocket, piercing the bubble of their tender moment. Setting down his coffee on the counter, he rummages through his pocket to find his phone. "Might be for the case," he explains.

"Of course. Take it."

"Actually, it's my father," he says, his eyebrows squishing in confusion as he reads his phone screen. "That's weird. He's on a business trip in Arizona." He swipes his thumb across the screen to accept the call. "Dad, hi."

His father's voice muffled on the other end, Rebecca can't make out exactly what he's saying. His tone is characteristically gruff and matter-of-fact sounding. Whatever he's saying, it makes Nathaniel's eyes whip to hers then go wide.

"Oh. Oh my god," he gasps. His face goes pale. His mouth gapes open.

"What?" Rebecca stage-whispers.

"Of course. I'll go right now. See you there," he says, his voice shaky as he ends the call.

"What is it?"

He rubs his forehead, then states in an almost robotic tone, "My mom was in a car accident. She's at Cedars-Sinai in the ICU."

Rebecca scurries out from behind the counter to be by his side. "Oh my god. Is she OK?"

AJ goes still and watches on with interest, pausing his restocking efforts.

"I don't know. He's, um, he's taking the next flight in," Nathaniel says, disbelieving. He scrubs his hand over his face. Then with a sudden stroke of realization, he groans, "Shit, Melissa."

The excruciating turmoil of indecision is written all over his face. Paralyzed, stricken, he stands frozen in place, like all four of his limbs simultaneously gave up on him and refuse to budge. Whatever tiny shred of protective, maternal instinct she has kicks into high gear as she watches him wrestle with this flood of emotions. She tries to muster the most calm, commanding version of herself to overcompensate for his utter devastation.

"Nathaniel," she says to get his attention, snapping her fingers in front of his face, "listen to me. Here's what we're going to do."

He blinks several times in quick succession and tries to focus on her face, clearly prepared to follow any instructions she gives him.

Thinking on her feet, she spouts off, "You are going to drive to the hospital. You're going to give me your case notes and I am going to call Paula and she and I will figure something out, OK? Got it?"

He takes a deep, unsteady breath. "OK," he exhales.

He shrugs his messenger bag off his shoulder and she takes charge, grabbing the bag and plunking it on the closest table. She unzips it and removes a thin, professional-looking folio stuffed to the brim with papers.

"This it?"

He nods blankly.

"OK, you go," she insists, handing him the bag and giving him a gentle push on the arm.

Without another word, he turns on his heels and exits the building. She stares down at the black folder, unsure what to do next.

"Wow, that was intense," AJ remarks. His voice is devoid of its usual snark, holding only genuine concern. "You should go. Go call Paula. I got this," he says with a reassuring half-smile.

"Thank you. Truly."

"Maybe clean that crusted pot from your mac and cheese that's been sitting in the sink for three days?"

"Done!" she yells over her shoulder as she rushes to the door.

As she walks to the parking lot, she frantically scrolls through her phone for Paula's name. She presses with force on her name and listens while it rings. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer.

"Come on. Pick up. Pick up. Pick up," she chants as she approaches her car. The call goes to voicemail as she plops down in the driver's seat.

She calls again. And again it goes to voicemail.

"Fuck!" she shouts, hitting both her hands hard against the steering wheel in frustration.

The clock taunts her from the dashboard and she drums her hands over the wheel, a hot panic coursing through her veins. She doesn't have time to waste sitting in the parking lot waiting for Paula to take her call. Making a split second decision, she slams the car into reverse. There's no choice, really.

Traffic is light mid-day, but Rebecca fully deploys her lead foot anyway and cruises across town in record time. As each minute passes, she mentally recalculates how much time she has to convince Paula to represent Melissa and then drive to the courthouse. Thirty minutes. Twenty-five minutes. Her parking job is so haphazard, she somehow manages to cross not one but two yellow lines in the process.

She stumbles in the door and immediately barks at the receptionist, out-of-breath, "I need to see Paula Proctor!"

The young man sitting behind the desk in a slick navy suit arches an eyebrow at her. No matter how many times she visits Paula's office, Rebecca is struck by how sleek and professional it is compared to Mountaintop.

"Do you have an appointment?" he asks with an air of arrogance, like he already knows the answer.

"No, but it's an emergency. Please!"

"Let me see if she's available," he says far too slowly for the urgency of the situation. He picks up the phone receiver and dials an extension. Eyeing her from head to toe, he says, "Hi Paula, there is a . . . fast food worker here to see you."

The last thing she needs is to embarrass Paula at her place of work, so she quickly unties and removes her apron, smoothes out her blouse.

"Rebecca. My name is Rebecca. I'm her best friend."

She bounces on her toes while tapping her fingers furiously against her palm.

"Rebecca. She says it's an emergency," he says in a flat monotone, "OK, I'll send her in." He hangs up the phone and adds, deadpan, "Follow me."

Practically about to jump out of her own skin, she trails the receptionist a little too closely until she spots Paula through the window of her office. She's seated at a small table with an older gentleman in a pale blue polo and khakis. Once she's in sight, Rebecca pushes past the receptionist and Paula's eyes go wide when she sees the distress on Rebecca's face.

"This will just take one moment," Paula says to the man as she steps into the hallway.

Closing the door gently behind her, Paula asked in a hushed tone, "Sweetie, what's going on? I'm with a client."

"I am so sorry, but I really need your help. You need to fill in for Nathaniel at Melissa's hearing. His mother was in a car accident and he had to go to LA," she says in a whoosh.

Paula checks her watch. "That hearing is in thirty minutes."

"Please," Rebecca begs, folding her hands together in prayer, "Please, Paula. I haven't asked for a favor in a super long time. You know how hard it was for Nathaniel to get this date. Who knows how long it would take to get another hearing. Please. Please. Please."

Paula glances into her office at her client, then back to Rebecca.

"Jacob," she addresses the receptionist, "reschedule my appointment with Mr. Martinez for next week."

"Oh Paula," Rebecca gushes, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

Paula returns to her office and offers a rushed apology to her client, grabbing her purse on the way out.

"Let's roll."

The two make it to the courthouse with only seven minutes to spare. Melissa is visibly relieved when Paula walks into the courtroom, expelling a deep breath. Rebecca takes a seat in the first row just behind counsel while Paula confers with Melissa and explains the situation.

With the evidence so clear-cut, the case is a slam dunk and Paula easily argues for Melissa's release with no hiccups. As always, Paula is impressive and commanding in the courtroom, even with such short notice to fill in, further bolstering Rebecca's belief that Paula was made for this line of work.

As the judge announces the terms of Melissa's release, Rebecca pays close attention to Melissa's reaction. She cups both her hands over her mouth, her entire face crumbling with relief. Tears instantly begin to flow down her cheeks and Paula grabs her hand and whispers something encouraging to her with a smile.

This is the moment, she thinks. This is the moment Nathaniel lives for. And he's missing it.

After they both stand, Melissa gathers Paula into a crushing hug and says through her tears, "Thank you. Thank you. You and Nathaniel are my guardian angels."

Rebecca swallows a lump in her throat. If only he could witness this first-hand.

"Please tell Nathaniel thank you for everything he did," she says to Paula when she pulls away, insistent, tightly holding both her hands, "Make sure he knows."

"Of course. I will," Paula says, "I promise."

Finally able to breathe, Rebecca excuses herself from the courtroom to call Nathaniel. She's itching to know if he made it to the hospital and wants to at least give him this small bit of good news.

The phone rings and rings and rings with no answer.

"Why is no one answering their phones today?!" she cries with frustration.

"Honey, what's wrong?" Paula asks and Rebecca jumps. She hadn't even noticed Paula leave the courtroom she was so wrapped up in trying to reach Nathaniel. "We did it! You should be happy. Justice has been served."

"Nathaniel's not answering his phone."

"It's OK. We can catch up with him later."

Rebecca chews at her bottom lip, white-knuckling the phone.

"You're worried about him," Paula states, matter-of-fact.

"ICU means it's bad, right? That's bad? Really bad?"

"Well, it's not _good_."

Rebecca stares down at the drab carpet and pulls nervously on her ear.

"Why don't you just go to the hospital?"

"You think I should?"

"If this is serious, he could probably use the support. I mean, who else does he have? His garbage father?"

Rebecca wrings her fingers together, indecisive. "You really think I should just show up?"

"Showing up is just about the most romantic thing you can do for someone."

Rebecca sighs, "You know it's not like that."

Paula holds Rebecca's eyes steady for a beat, then cups her shoulder. "Honey, I want to say something to you. I know you'll probably tell me I'm wrong, but I want you to just listen for a second."

"OK . . ." Rebecca says warily.

"If you love Nathaniel, that is a _wonderful_ thing," she says earnestly, rubbing her shoulder.

"Paula, no –" she rasps, her throat tightening.

"I know that people around here are very opinionated about your love life, but you have to do what's right for _you_. You wouldn't be letting anyone down. You know that, right? It's _OK _to let yourself have this."

Rebecca squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, fighting the overwhelming urge to say: _No, I don't deserve this. I'm not allowed to have this. I'm broken and stupid and I'll screw it all up._

"Munchkin," Paula says softly, beseeching, "do you love him? Don't you lie to me."

Her chin quivers and the words catch in her throat, "Of course I do."

"Oh sweetie," Paula coos and wraps her arms around her shoulders, pulling her into a fierce hug.

"I love him. I want to be with him," Rebecca whimpers into her shoulder. It fills her with a warm rush of relief to be able to vocalize it after bottling up her feelings for so long.

"I know. I know it's hard."

"It doesn't matter," Rebecca says forlornly as she pulls away, wiping at her nose, "It doesn't matter how I feel."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't love me back," she says with a pathetic sniffle.

"What?! Oh please," Paula scoffs.

"No no, you don't understand. I know he doesn't. There have been _so _many opportunities for things to happen between us. And, nothing. He never acts on it. One time he was even on top of me – long story – and he jumped off of me like I had the plague."

Paula steeples her fingers together and purses her lips. "Let's take a trip down memory lane, shall we? V's wedding. I walked in on the two of you dancing on the stairs. In the moonlight. Cheek-to-cheek. Hips-to-hips. He was singing softly in your ear. You were swooning."

Rebecca rolls her eyes. "We were dancing. So what? He was my _platonic_ date. Dancing is pretty much part of the deal."

"Fine. What about your shows?"

"What about them?"

"All I know is every month I sit next to that boy while he gives you these big, dopey, emoji heart eyes the _entire_ time you're singing."

"Yeah, so?"

"Aaand the way he kisses you at the end of the night . . ." she starts, her eyebrows raising.

"Kisses me?"

"On the cheek, but still! There is lingering. _Major_ lingering. That means he doesn't want it to end! He loves you! Face it!"

Rebecca's stomach does a somersault. God, she wants so badly for it to be true but is too afraid to let herself believe it.

"Alright, alright, calm down. I get your point."

"If you love him, you should go to him. Whether he's willing to admit it or not, he needs you. All you have to do is be there. Even if it means sitting in silence with him. It helps. It's a comfort just knowing _someone _is there."

"You're right," Rebecca says, suddenly resolute, "There are so many times my friends have been there for me. I want to be there for him. It's my turn."

"That's my cookie," Paula says with pride, touching the side of her face affectionately.

Rebecca is all nerves and jitters as she drives to LA, all the unknowns swirling like a tornado in her head. With the complete radio silence from Nathaniel, she has no idea what she's walking into, except that it can't be good. She has no plan for what she will do or say or even how to get into the ICU when she gets there, but Paula's words propel her forward despite all these uncertainties.

When the hospital receptionist in purple scrubs asks for the name of the person she's visiting, Rebecca realizes she doesn't even know his mother's first name.

"Last name is Plimpton. I think she's in the ICU. I'm her, uh, niece."

"Uh huh. And first name?"

Rebecca tries to conjure every WASP-y, rich-sounding name she can imagine. "Oh, you know, we always call her by nicknames. Kitty. Bitsy. But I'm sure she's under her full name."

"Elizabeth?" the receptionist offers.

"Yes, of course. That's it."

She confidently sticks the visitor name badge on her chest, pretending she belongs. With every tentative step through the hospital on her way to the ICU, she second-guesses her decision to come. She figures it could go one of two ways. He could be grateful for her support. After all, she's his best friend – he's said as much to her out loud. However, in moments of emotional vulnerability, his reactions can be hit-or-miss at best. He's lashed out when he's felt weak or hurt in the past and he could do it again. It's an impulse she understands all too well. Consequently, she's not sure which Nathaniel she'll find at the end of the long series of corridors.

She finally spots him standing just outside of a curtained area, speaking with a woman in a white coat.

". . . and the impact of the collision caused her to go into a coma. However, the CT scan doesn't show any evidence of a brain injury, which is a good sign. Usually the likelihood of a patient waking up from a coma is, sadly, fifty-fifty. But from what we've seen, we're optimistic she could come out of it. We'll monitor her closely, but we can't operate on her leg until her vitals improve. It would be too risky. All we can do at this point is wait."

"Understood. Thank you, doctor."

Rebecca hovers nearby and waits for the doctor to disappear down the hall before approaching him.

"Nathaniel."

Nathaniel turns at the sound of her voice. His face is drawn with a dull pallor, his eyes glassy. At the sight of her standing beside him, his muscles tense and he stretches to full height. Without saying a word, she knows exactly which Nathaniel she's getting.

"What are you doing here?"

Her stomach drops. This may be the worst idea she's ever had.

"You weren't answering your phone," she says timidly.

"So you just show up here?"

"I just . . . wanted to make sure you were OK."

Nathaniel's never felt taller, she thinks, as he towers over her like a cold, unfeeling skyscraper.

"I heard what the doctor said," she murmurs.

His stoic facade cracks and he glances toward the curtain, where his mother is barely concealed behind its paper-thin fabric.

"What kind of surgery does she need?" she asks softly.

"Um," he swallows, "both her tibia and fibula are broken in her left leg. She needs reconstructive surgery, but they have to wait until she wakes up. If she wakes up." He doesn't look her in the eyes – he can't – and he tightly clenches his fist at his side.

"Will she walk again?"

"They don't know."

She shifts her weight from one leg to another, unsure what to say.

Tension rolls off his body in waves, compelling her to smooth it away. "I'm sorry," she whispers, reaching out and touching his bicep.

He jerks his arm away and glances frantically down the hall. "My father's going to be here any second," he snaps.

Anger surges through her and she fires back without thinking, "I thought you didn't care what your precious daddy thinks. Now, what, you don't want to be seen with the Rooftop Killer?"

The regret is instantaneous. She's made a fatal error, further fueling his instinct to push her away. What a perfect moment to backslide, she thinks.

"First of all, I am not _with_ you. You are not my girlfriend, so stop acting like it."

She sucks in a sharp breath at his words, her chest clenching in pain. They're on a one-way speeding train toward a tunnel of self-destruction, courtesy of her complete inability to regulate her emotional reactions. At least he has an excuse for his outburst. An excuse lying a few feet away in a hospital bed. She has none.

"Go home," he says dismissively, turning his back to her. Stiff as a board. With each step he takes away from her, she feels the emotional distance widening like an endless, vast chasm.

She panics.

"Melissa is free," she calls after him.

That stops him in his tracks. The muscles in his neck flex, ripple with tension.

"What?" he whispers as he spins around to face her.

"After you left, I rushed over to Paula's office – I went about a billion miles an hour. Probably should have gotten a ticket. Anyway, I begged her to take your place and she did! She filled in for you and Melissa is being released. You did it, Nathaniel."

He clears his throat and his jaw tightens. He's funneling every ounce of energy into not showing any emotion, into keeping up this futile fight against her support.

"I watched Melissa's face for you when the judge announced the verdict. I wanted to be able to tell you how she looked. She, um, her face did this scrunchy thing and she cried. She hugged Paula. She said you're her guardian angel. So, that's what happened. I'm sorry you missed that moment."

His lips part and a shaky, quavering breath escapes his lips. His words are harsh, but his voice completely betrays him, faltering and cracking over the syllables, "What, you want an award for not being selfish for once?"

She smiles tenderly up at him, seeing straight through his feeble, final attempt to push her away.

Confidently, she says, "Here's what I'm going to do. You don't want your uptight dad to see me? Fine. Since you're obviously going to stay here overnight, I'm going to book a hotel room across the street. Which you will pay me back for later, of course. I will be there all night. So you can choose to join me or not. Either way, I am not leaving you here alone."

Nathaniel's eyes dart to the ceiling, still fighting. "Your show is tonight," he croaks.

"I'll skip it."

"It's important to you."

"_You're_ important to me."

He finally meets her eyes and he rubs his hand absently over his chest. Over his heart.

"The shows will always be there. You need me _now_. Whether or not your stubborn self wants to admit it."

He says nothing, stunned speechless. And that's how she knows she's right.

"I'll make sure they have a key for you at the front desk."

He nods once, curt, and doesn't stop her when she walks away.

The entertainment options at the hotel leave a lot to be desired. Before heading up to the room, Rebecca gets a glass of wine at the bar adjacent to the lobby. Much to her chagrin, the bartender doesn't seem keen on holding a conversation. Loitering alone at the bar only brings back cursed memories of Marco and the tragic butt-dial that caused her to make one of the worst mistakes of her life. She vacates her barstool and crosses to a tiny gift shop with touristy knick-knacks. She buys an oversized _I LOVE LA_ t-shirt so she has something to sleep in that's not her unforgiving jeans and button-up blouse. Opting for the comforting combination of a gourmet burger and parmesan garlic fries, she settles in on one of the two queen-sized beds and watches a mindless _Hallmark_ romantic comedy. As always, there's a marathon in progress.

At ten o'clock, she starts to wonder if he's not coming. She's received zero notifications. No calls. No texts. Not even in response to her sending the room number. She can't help but worry that maybe his anger wasn't a front. Maybe he is truly mad at her for showing up at the hospital.

Eventually the combination of heavy food, wine, and the predictably dull movie start to lull her. Her eyelids droop and she floats lazily toward the precipice of sleep, still fully dressed with all the lights in the room still on. The moment she drifts off, she hears a faint beep from the hallway. Then, the click of the door unlocking. Nathaniel's tall, slim outline is unmistakable in the doorway. In one of his hands, he's holding a grey duffel bag.

Rebecca stirs and unfolds her hands where they lay across her stomach. "Hey," she says groggily, "is she awake?"

"No," he replies quietly.

She rubs at her eyes, then throws her legs over the side of the bed.

"Do you need something to eat or –?"

"No."

He stands just inside the doorway like a statue, silent and unmoving, staring vacantly into the middle distance. Shock. He's in shock, she thinks.

She drags herself out of bed and crosses to him, gingerly taking the gym bag out of his clenched hand.

"Alright buddy, you clearly need some sleep so let's get you into these clothes, huh?" she says casually, trying to put him at ease.

She takes his hand and tugs him gently toward the bed, setting the bag down on top of it. Unzipping the bag, she finds a grey t-shirt and cobalt blue athletic shorts. Well, she reasons, it's not like she hasn't undressed him a million times before. What's one more time?

First, the suit jacket. She pushes at the lapels until his brain gets the message and he shrugs his shoulders to help her ease it off. She tosses it unceremoniously over the nearby armchair. Next, the tie. As she expertly tugs at the knot, his hands come to rest warmly on either side of her waist. The knot slips loose after a few pulls, all while he watches her with a chillingly blank expression. The tie joins the pile with his suit jacket.

Next, his dress shirt. Oh, she has a very specific muscle memory for undoing these buttons. God knows how many times she's unbuttoned this exact crisp, white shirt. The first three buttons pop open with ease and reveal the upper part of his tanned chest. Resolved to not be distracted by his smooth skin, she doesn't linger or ogle and grabs at the bottom of his shirt to untuck it from his pants. She's determined to finish the job, no matter how overwhelming the urge to run her tongue over his breastbone is.

The moment her hands find his waistband, something clicks inside him. His hands leave her waist and fumble at the top button of her blouse. Apparently, he also has a specific muscle memory for undressing her. He easily unhooks the top two buttons, exposing the tops of her breasts to his icy blue gaze. With only a minimal amount of hesitancy, he slips his hand underneath her blouse. His fingertips run softly over her shoulder while his thumb reverently traces her collarbone. Her eyes slide shut for a moment, savoring his touch. She's ninety-nine percent sure he doesn't consciously realize what he's doing, but, lord, she doesn't want him to stop. It's been so long. So long since his elegant fingers danced over her skin like this.

As much as she wants to give in and let him take what he needs, she can't let it happen. She's waited too patiently for this to be something they regret later. There's no choice, really.

"Hey," she whispers softly, "What are you doing?"

His eyes snap up to hers, like he's come out of a trance. "I . . . I don't know."

She swallows hard, mustering the modicum of will power she has. "We can't," she whispers, "Not like this."

He nods, licks his lips. "Sorry. I'm sorry," he whispers, running his hand nervously through his hair.

"Can you do the rest?"

"Yeah."

In slow motion, he undresses the rest of the way and puts on his gym clothes. Rebecca turns away for modesty's sake and sheds her jeans and blouse, throwing on the t-shirt she found at the gift shop. After folding his clothes meticulously on top of the dresser, he lies down in the unoccupied bed opposite hers. Rebecca returns to her spot in the other bed and switches off the light. She watches his silhouette in the darkness as he stares at the ceiling, hands folded tightly over his stomach.

"Will you be able to sleep?" she asks softly, piercing the silence.

"I don't know. Don't worry about me."

She vigilantly watches the outline of his chest rise and fall until she can't keep her eyes open any longer.

"Rebecca."

When he whispers her name, rousing her from sleep, it takes a minute for her brain to catch up with her unfamiliar surroundings. No, she's not at home wrapped in the comfort of her own soft blankets. She's in a mediocre, cold hotel room wrapped in an itchy comforter. And she's not alone.

"Hmm?" she hums.

She squints at the nightstand to read the green glowing numbers on the alarm clock but her vision is too hazy to register the shapes.

"Are you awake?"

She chuckles, "I am now."

"Sorry. Can I, um, can I lie with you for a while?"

"Yeah, 'course," she mumbles, scooting away from the edge to make room.

Tentatively he pulls back the sheets and slides into the bed beside her. Still teetering on the delicate edge of sleep, she almost slips right back into unconsciousness once he settles. That is, until his nose nudges at her neck and his arm hints at her waist. His neediness for her is so palpable, so achingly transparent. She eases her arm under him and around his shoulders, beckoning him. With that slightest provocation, he readily buries his face in her neck. His hot tears sting her skin. Though he's made no sound and she can't see his face in the dark, her neck is bathed in the evidence that he's been crying for quite some time. She presses a compassionate kiss to his forehead and his arm tightens around her in response, his fingers clutching desperately at her thin t-shirt.

"I'm scared," he whispers, barely audible.

She combs her fingers through his hair. "I know, I know," she soothes.

"Any time I love someone," he cries, his voice breaking, "I lose them."

She's never seen him like this – so violently hopeless. Hooking her leg around his torso, she wraps him up in a full-body hug the best she can with her limited wingspan.

"I was a dick to you," he sobs, his breath puffing against her neck.

He was.

"Please don't leave."

She won't.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispers, "I'm here. I'm right here."

She strokes his back over all his muscles pulled taut as violin strings. He's gulping down every strangled breath, straining to contain the hurricane of emotions stored airtight within his chest.

"Just let go," she murmurs, pulling him even closer, "Let it out."

A loud sob wracks his entire body, the intensity of it knocking the wind out of her and causing tears to spring to her own eyes in an empathic response. He cries unabashedly in her arms, uncorking his entire backlog of repressed grief. There's nothing she can do but hold him, envelop him as tightly as she can in her arms and hope it's enough.

He quiets after some elusive amount of time. After the collar of her shirt is soaked with a mix of tears and sweat and desperation. As she rhythmically strokes his hair, hoping it will eventually calm him to sleep, she realizes that _this_ is what it means to truly love someone. Love doesn't make everything into sunshine and rainbows and giant flying pretzels. Life doesn't stop throwing punches – and those punches don't get any less painful – just because you're in love. She's never wanted to take a punch for another person more than she does in this very moment. She wonders if this is how Nathaniel felt when he held her in the bathroom stall. Did he want to take away her pain like this? Is that why he keeps trying to rescue Rebetzel's?

Loving him makes her want to be like this – to be the person doing the holding, to be the person he can show all his insecurities to, unafraid. For someone who's so skilled at building walls around his feelings, she's never witnessed a more raw, real, intense display of emotion.

When his breathing finally evens out, she silently prays for him to find relief in sleep.

Early. It feels so damn early when Nathaniel's phone loudly vibrates on top of the night table.

The first thing she registers is his smell. His detergent and his skin and his sweat and his deodorant all mixed together spreading through her nostrils. Her nose is nuzzled in his t-shirt, nestled in the vast plane of his back. The second thing she notices is the heat radiating from his body, warming every place their bodies touch. The entire length of her is curled around him — her bare knees tucked into the backs of his, her arm protectively snug around his middle, her hand tucked in his palm somewhere near his stomach. The littlest big spoon.

Nathaniel releases her hand and clumsily feels around for his phone.

"Hello," he says, his voice raspy with sleep. Then, his voice suddenly becomes alert, "She is? OK, I'll come right now."

Nathaniel quickly springs up from bed, leaving her arms cold and empty.

"She's awake?"

"Yeah," he says with a tiny smile, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I'm, uh, I gotta go. She's going into surgery."

She sits up against the headboard, unsure how to proceed. Without missing a beat, he strips off his gym clothes and changes back into his pants and dress shirt from the previous day. Once dressed, he stares at himself disapprovingly in the mirror. His eyes are rimmed in red, tired. His face, pale. He tousles his hair to try to smooth away his bed head, straightens his collar, tucks his shirt into his pants.

Moving at a much slower pace, Rebecca rises from bed and finds her own clothes on the dresser. She pulls on her jeans, then turns away to remove her t-shirt and slip on her bra and button-up blouse. When she turns back, he's openly staring at her. She sidles up beside him and shares the mirror, throwing her hair into a messy ponytail as he watches.

"You don't have to, um, if you need to go home . . ."

"I don't need to go home. Do you want me to go home?"

He pauses and scrubs his hand over his face. His brow furrows, conflicted. This is still difficult for him. The middle of the night under a cloak of darkness is much different than the harsh light of morning where she can see his every expression, hear his words crystal clear. He lets out a shaky breath.

"There's nobody else but the two of us here," she reassures him.

His eyes stray, focus on the top button of her blouse, afraid to meet hers.

"Nathaniel," she says gently.

When his gaze finds her, it's naked, pleading. His words are caught somewhere in his chest, unable to escape.

"Ask me," she whispers.

A hint of a tiny smile flits across his lips. "Ask you what?"

"Ask me to stay. Ask me to come with you. If you need me, just ask."

He blinks hard, his emotions still so dangerously near the surface. "Please come with me," he says, "I need you."

"OK," she says, grabbing her purse from the dresser, "let's go."

At the hospital, Rebecca tries to keep in step with Nathaniel's long strides as he rushes through the hospital corridors to the operating rooms. She spots Nathaniel Sr. before he sees her, so she's able to watch his utter surprise at seeing her alongside his son. Like Nathaniel, he's in slacks and a white dress shirt, which must be the official Plimpton uniform.

"Any update?" Nathaniel asks as soon as they approach.

His father's eyes look from Nathaniel to Rebecca and back. "She woke up at about four in the morning and she stabilized enough to go into surgery. Depending on what they find, it could last up to four or five hours. They're putting in a rod and some screws in her ankle. Other than her leg, she doesn't appear to have sustained any other injuries."

"It's good news then," he replies with relief.

"They said, with what her car looked like, she's lucky to be alive."

Nathaniel nods and puts a hand on Rebecca's back. "Um, you know Rebecca?"

"Yes, I know who you are," he says with skepticism.

Rebecca shifts awkwardly and says, "I'm very sorry about your wife."

"Yes, well, let's sit down, I guess," Nathaniel Sr. offers, gesturing to the waiting room.

Nathaniel and his father sit across from one another and Rebecca takes a seat directly next to Nathaniel.

This is going to be a long five hours, she thinks, as she meets Nathaniel Sr.'s intimidating eyes. What is she allowed to say and do in front of his father? Just yesterday, Nathaniel didn't even want him to see her, let alone spend five hours in full view of his judgmental stare.

Nathaniel Sr. immediately opens his laptop and begins typing away at something. Something work-related, she assumes. Nathaniel, by contrast, seems too off-kilter to focus on much of anything. He scrolls through his phone for a bit, flipping through headlines. His leg bounces up and down restlessly on his heel.

Eager for a distraction, Rebecca picks up an old _People_ magazine on a nearby side table and thumbs through it.

"Look, celebrities are just like us," she jokes softly, leaning in toward Nathaniel, "There's Matt Damon picking up his kid from school. Justin Timberlake in sweatpants getting Starbucks. Oh! And look, here's Emily Blunt after yoga in her effortlessly stylish athleisure. Didn't you say you have a crush on her?"

For the first time in hours, Nathaniel cracks a smile. He nods.

"Well, there's your girl. Probably works out just as much as you. Match made in heaven," she quips. She flips the page. "OK," she says excitedly, pressing the magazine to her chest, "I'm going to show you this page and you have to choose who wore it best. But you can't think about it. You have to go by instinct."

Nathaniel's smile gets wider and Rebecca notices Nathaniel Sr. watching them out of the corner of her eye.

"One, two, three," she says, then reveals the page to him. The magazine is comparing Julia Roberts against Katie Holmes who are both wearing the same stunning crimson red dress.

He points to Katie Holmes.

"What?! I completely disagree," she says, "You have terrible taste."

Nathaniel chuckles. "You're right, women's special event formalwear has always been my Achilles' heel."

"Actually, I disagree with this whole notion of pitting women against each other like this. Can't we agree they are both gorgeous?" she asks rhetorically. She turns the page. "Oh my god, listen to this: _Hero Firefighter Protects Evacuees from California Wildfire_. Let's read this. Sounds harrowing."

"Sure."

As she softly reads out loud to him, he relaxes, leaning back and resting his head against the wall. He closes his eyes, listens intently to the sound of her voice.

Once she reaches the third paragraph, his fingers nudge at hers. She stops reading for a moment and meets his eyes. His expression is tender, grateful, full of affection for her. A lump forms in her throat as he threads his trembling fingers with hers and squeezes.

_I love you_, she thinks. _God, I hope you know how much I love you._

She chances a quick glance over at Nathaniel Sr. and he's attentively watching the entire silent exchange. She clears her throat and returns to reading the article as if nothing happened.

She loses track of how long they hold hands as she reads article after article to him.

The surgery doesn't last as long as the doctor initially estimated, wrapping up in less than four hours. A nurse leads the three of them to the recovery room, but policy allows only one visitor at a time.

"You go," Nathaniel Sr. says, "I saw her before she went into surgery."

Nathaniel nods and enters the room, leaving Rebecca alone with his father.

As the door is closing, Elizabeth reaches for Nathaniel and affectionately coos, "Oh, my sweet pea."

Left unchaperoned in the hallway across from Nathaniel Sr., Rebecca has not one clue what to say.

"Um –"

"You own that Rebetzel's now, right? In the lobby?"

"That's me. I'm Rebetzel's."

"I thought so," he says.

Evidently, that's the extent of the available small talk.

He clears his throat. "Listen, I know I gave Nathaniel a hard time about you, but I know what you did. You saved his life that day on the roof."

It's the last thing she expected to hear from him and a memory she's buried for quite some time.

"Oh. Oh, wow. Yeah, that was, uh, a really scary day."

She glances into the room and Nathaniel is sitting on the edge of his mother's bed, relief and happiness written all over his face.

"I know I've been tough on him," Nathaniel Sr. says wistfully, also watching the two through the glass. "My father was the same with me. I always thought it was my job as a parent to prepare him for the harsh reality of the real world."

Rebecca says nothing, curious as to where his monologue is going and, frankly, shocked that he's speaking openly with her at all.

He continues, "I never let him see my weakness. I thought it was my job to put on a brave face, no matter what."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Elizabeth," he says, nodding towards his wife. "She's my soft spot. She's the one person I can't hide anything from. She's the one person I don't want to hide anything from. And today, I saw that that's who you are to my son." He turns to face her and his expression is gentler, almost vulnerable. "I'm trying to say that I'm glad he has you, despite your . . . criminal record."

It's a sentiment she never in a million years expected to hear out of the mouth of Nathaniel Sr. Though, considering the circumstances, and especially if she reminds him of his wife in some small way, she supposes that emotional upheaval can glean a little kindness even out of the most stoic of people.

"Thank you, sir," she says and means it.

Nathaniel Sr. signals the end to their conversation with a nod she recognizes as so quintessentially Nathaniel, it makes her want to give him a chance. Maybe somewhere within him there's kindness and a heart, in the same way that Nathaniel's heart used to be so deeply buried under layers of protective tissue.

Nathaniel returns to the hallway and Nathaniel Sr. switches places with him, joining his wife in the recovery room.

"How is she?"

"She seems good, all things considered. She's on morphine, so she's a little loopy," he says with a half-grin.

"Will she walk?"

"She needs a lot of physical therapy, but she should be able to walk again if she sticks to it."

"That's great."

He rubs at the back of his neck. "Listen, I know it's been a long twenty-four hours. You can go. She's going to be discharged sometime tomorrow."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She squints up at him, searching for any signs that he's lying and really does need her there. She finds none. He's telling the truth.

"OK then."

"So —"

"I guess I'll just —"

She sticks both her thumbs out and awkwardly gestures behind her before turning and walking away. She could use a shower, a decent meal, and a triple shot of espresso right about now. But she would have stayed another day if he had asked. It almost feels like leaving a piece of her heart behind, leaving him here after such a traumatic event.

When she's about to breach the double-doors to the next hallway, heavy footfalls get louder and louder behind her, speeding up as they get close.

"Rebecca, wait," Nathaniel calls out.

She whips around, assuming the worst. "What? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I, um, I didn't even . . . I don't know how to thank you. For everything you did. I should – I wanted to thank you," he says, stumbling over his words. "You covered my hearing and you missed your show and you sat here with me for hours. And last night . . ."

And there it is. The glimmer. The one she told Dr. Akopian about. That flicker of love for her in his eyes. She waits a beat for him to say something, as he inevitably does, that will make her doubt she ever saw it.

"Rebecca," he says, his voice becoming reverent and quiet. "Sorry, I'm so bad at this."

He wets his lips and his eyes turn soft and adoring. Full of an emotion she's too afraid to name.

_He gives you these big, dopey, emoji heart eyes._

Unable to form the words, he ducks low and gathers her into his arms. She wraps hers securely around his shoulders, melting her body to his. Tucking his face into her neck, his nose tickles a sensitive patch of skin that sends a tiny shiver through her. His hold on her is tight, so tight. For a brief moment, her toes leave the ground and she's tempted to abandon all semblance of decorum and hike her legs around his waist. Cling to him like a needy little barnacle. The time and place couldn't be worse, so she tamps down that urge and saves it for later.

"See, you're not so bad at this," she says with a joking lilt.

He laughs, the vibrations of it rumbling through her chest.

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. He kisses her in the crook of her neck and she strokes her fingers through his hair, applying the tiniest bit of pressure.

_There is lingering. Major lingering. That means he doesn't want it to end!_

When he finally releases her, he has the same expression as before he hugged her. The glimmer is still there, even stronger, in his eyes.

Is it possible . . . is it too much to hope that he's having a moment? (There's always a moment.)

How long can they stare at each other like this before she spontaneously combusts? Because she doesn't know what to say or do next, she takes both his hands in hers.

"Call me if anything changes or if you need anything, OK?"

His breathing is shallow and staccato and unsure, like there's a million things on the tip of his tongue but he can't quite articulate any of it. He swallows and gives her a nervous smile. Finally, he simply says, "OK. I will."

She gives his hands a final squeeze and resumes her walk down the corridor. When she gets to the doors at the end, she glances back over her shoulder and he's still watching her, a thoughtful expression on his face.

Maybe, just maybe, Paula is right.

__He gives her a tiny wave and mouths _Bye_.


	13. Surprise Me

**Part Four: Face Your Fears (Second Reprise)**

**October 4, 2020**

Nathaniel's palms are slick with sweat long before Rebecca even arrives at the abandoned lot. He sent her a cryptic text about an hour ago, asking her to meet him here for a celebration. When she pushed him to elaborate, he insisted it was a surprise. He's usually not one for surprises, neither on the giving or receiving end. However, Rebecca decidedly _is _– the more grandiose, the better – and he's banking on that fact, praying that his big reveal goes according to plan.

There's not much he can do about how dingy and uninviting the property looks in its stripped-down, vacated state. While the lot is open-air, it allows for the privacy he wants for the conversation since it's been closed down for over a month. He springs for pricey champagne and two plastic flutes in an attempt to class up the occasion. Maybe it's presumptuous to assume they'll be toasting when all is said and done, but things between he and Rebecca have been so wildly wonderful as of late that he remains optimistic. Since his mother was discharged from the hospital, the two have been in a honeymoon phase. All the little things that usually annoy him about her – her constant humming under her breath, her propensity to be late for absolutely everything, her jabs at his eating habits – seem to dissipate into vapor when he remembers how she held his hand in the hospital waiting room and wiped his tears in the middle of the night.

The only problem with their little bubble is that it's only exacerbated his reliance on her friendship. They're inseparable, even more so than before, which, if you ask AJ, no one thought was humanly possible. Every spare moment he has, he spends with her. Calling her, texting her, laughing with her, teasing her, touching her.

Loving her.

The realization that he loves her came on suddenly – alarmingly so – and the intensity of it was downright terrifying. Who knew all it would take was one debilitating emotional breakdown to trigger this little revelation and shake loose the final brick of his carefully constructed emotional walls.

His love has rendered him powerless to resist her. It's left him reeling, spinning dizzyingly out-of-control. He's given up trying to fight it. He's given up trying not to think about her when he's alone in bed at night. He's given up on pushing her away when they get dangerously close to crossing a line. And he gave up on the apps months ago when he kept canceling dates to spend more time with her. Subconsciously he must have known that no stranger could ever hold a candle to her.

Now he's stuck walking a tightrope. The tiniest shift in balance is going to send them flying over the edge without a harness, and he can't decide if he's ready for that kind of free fall. Showing his whole heart to her would mean either having his love reciprocated or rejection. Or much worse: love, followed by rejection. All the possible outcomes feel equally terrifying. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results. How many times can he fall for her, blow up his entire life over her, before he's declared legally insane?

He makes excuses to himself. For every little thing he does for her, his mind does a series of mental gymnastics to justify it. Ultimately, if he can't come up with a legitimate reason for seeing her for a fifth time that week, _we're friends_ is the refrain that allows him to sleep at night.

She appears under the archway where the glistening pink donut used to proudly hang, a vision in a cornflower-hued blouse that makes her eyes come alive in shades of electric greens and blues. She's wearing her hair loose and wild (his favorite) and it's long enough nowadays that it falls far past her collarbone. His stomach grows queasy at the sight of her. What he's about to do could bind them closer together or backfire and tear them apart. There is no in-between.

"So I get an urgent text from one Nathaniel Plimpton the third, requesting my presence at the location formerly known as Sugar Face for a celebration. A surprise, even. And you've interrupted my sacred song-writing day, so it must be important. I have to say, I'm intrigued."

"Thank you for coming," he says a little too formally, fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt.

"And look at you!" she raves.

"Huh?"

"Date shirt. Champagne. And not the cheap stuff either. Ooh la la. Must really be a special occasion."

She's right – without consciously planning it, he dressed himself in the same outfit as their date in the Hollywood hills. It throws him a bit off-kilter that she even remembers that little detail about their last romantic encounter. When she turned him down, he assumed, wrongly perhaps, that his date didn't stand out to her or mean as much as it did to him. _He_ certainly remembers every detail with a maddening clarity. They shared champagne then, too. It was the last time they kissed. The last time they . . .

"So spill it, Plimpton, what's this all about? Why did you summon me to my former place of worship?"

He takes a deep breath and tries to remember all the things he practiced in the mirror. He had taken great pains to think of the best way to frame his proposal, but all the words he prepared elude him in the moment when it really counts.

"I decided to make an investment. A big one."

"OK . . ."

"In this property."

"_This_ property? Where we're standing right now?"

"That's right."

She slow-blinks. "You bought Sugar Face," she deadpans.

"Not Sugar Face. I bought this lot. As an investment property. For passive income," he explains.

"You know, sometimes I still forget that you're rich. You're the only person I know who would ever use the phrase _passive income_ unironically. Personally, I'd like my income to be a lot more active, am I right?" she quips.

With a forced laugh, he agrees, "Right."

"Congratulations," she says, mustering enthusiasm. "Really. I'm so happy for you. You're going to get a fortune in rent. This location is perfect. Loads of foot traffic."

There's a twinge of wistfulness in her voice that tells him she hasn't put two and two together.

"So, what are your plans for this place?" she asks.

"Rent it to another local business. Find the next Sugar Face."

"Any takers?"

"A few businesses have reached out to me, yes, but I haven't signed anything yet."

"Why not? What are you waiting for?"

"For, um, for you."

She squints up at him. "Me?"

"I wanted to offer it to you first."

Her eyebrows climb high on her forehead in surprise. Her smile is disbelieving, subtle, like she wants to be happy at the news but is resisting the urge.

"Nathaniel," she exhales, her shoulders slumping, "that is very sweet. But you know I can't afford this place."

"I know," he says, holding out both his hands to stop her protests. "I thought maybe we could work out a deal."

She crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I'm listening."

"Maybe the first year or two, until you get on your feet, I charge you half the market rate."

Rebecca cocks her head to the side, considering this. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she says, "You know how I feel about taking your money. I don't want to be your charity case."

"It's not. It's not a gift or charity," he insists and pauses, a wave of sentimentality taking hold. He voices it aloud before he has time to filter it. "You know, honestly, this is repayment more than anything else."

"Repayment," she repeats softly. "Repayment for what?"

He's so far off-script, he's improvising. He hasn't even finished laying out the deal to her, but this divergence suddenly feels of the utmost importance to convey. As she stares up at him, her eyebrows all adorably squished together in confusion, his chest swells with affection for her and the words come out almost of their own accord.

"Every single thing in my life that brings me joy can one way or another be traced back to you."

Rebecca touches her hand to her chest and her lips part.

"Think about it. My time in Guatemala. My pro bono work. All the things in my life that make me happy wouldn't have happened without you. Whether you intended it to or not, you turned my entire life around. In the best ways."

Adrenaline courses through his body, his heartbeat deafening in his ears.

"I owe you everything," he concludes, "and, Rebecca, you owe me nothing."

Her breathing quickens, her eyes losing focus as she absorbs his words.

"Here's what I'm thinking. I know how important it is to you that you make it on your own. So, in return for the rent, you can give me a percentage of your revenue. You make money, I make money. I can be almost like a silent partner. Which is something you had no problem with before as I recall," he says with a teasing grin.

"That was different," she replies, snapping to attention, "It wasn't my business."

"Right, it was mine," he reminds her.

She bites her lip. "Right. I should probably apologize for that, huh. Sorry."

"It's in the past," he says, dismissing it with a shake of his head.

She sucks in a quick breath. "You're serious about this?"

"Deadly."

This time when she smiles, she lets it fully blossom. She claps her hands over her cheeks and surveys the lot. "This could all be mine," she states, in awe.

"Absolutely. What do you say?" he asks, holding out his hand.

"I say . . . you got a deal, Plimpton," she replies and takes his offered hand. They smile at each other while shaking hands, letting the moment breathe and expand until the urge to kiss her becomes so overwhelming he has to break away.

"Alright then," he says, abruptly dropping her hand to pick up the champagne bottle from the table, "time to celebrate."

As he's twisting off the wire cage around the cork, Rebecca says to herself, "This is happening. This is really happening."

"It is."

Nathaniel stabilizes the bottle against his thigh and pops the cork.

"Oh!" she gasps at the sound.

As he expertly pours the champagne, she holds the bases of the flimsy flutes steady for him.

"To . . . our partnership," he toasts off-the-cuff, holding up one of the glasses. "To how much money you'll make me when this place takes off. Which it will."

"Thank you," she says seriously, "for believing in my dream. Dreams, plural, actually. You're good at that – blindly supporting all my harebrained schemes."

"It's not a scheme. Not this time. With the right location and a slight assist from me in the cost-cutting department, you're going to be successful."

She looks down into her glass, uncharacteristically shy.

"And," he continues, "you should know that you're good at that too. Never giving up on me. Giving me second chances."

"To not giving up," she toasts, then hesitates before clinking her glass to his.

"What?"

"Nothing," she says, shaking her head, "It's dumb."

"No, tell me."

"I guess I just realized how important that's become to me. Not giving up on things. On my dreams. On other people. Most importantly, on myself."

It seems almost impossible how they could be the same two people who met three years ago in the Whitefeather conference room. The memory is still remarkably vivid in his mind. Her, in an obnoxiously bright pink and purple rash guard, ditching all her responsibilities to go to a water park with the supposed _man of her dreams_. Him, so stuck in his father's talons he would do anything to please him. Her, struggling to tread water, trying not to drown. And him, merely existing, taking pleasure in nothing in life.

"To not giving up," he agrees and touches his glass against hers.

After taking a thoughtful sip of champagne, Rebecca skips over to the cashier stand and takes her place behind the counter.

"Hi, welcome to Rebetzel's, what can I get you?" she asks cheerfully.

Nathaniel steps up to the counter and pretends to review the invisible menu, touching a contemplative finger to his lips.

"One cinnamon sugar and a black coffee."

"Cinnamon sugar?! No gluten-free?"

He shakes his head with a small grimace. "As your new, albeit silent, partner, I must advise you: no more gluten-free."

"What?! But . . . I do that for _you_," she says, so innocent and sweet it makes his chest throb.

"I know, but does anyone else buy it? Be honest."

"Maybe?" she squeaks. "Fine, it's gone. That'll be seven fifty. Have a truly happy day!"

She dances out from behind the counter and sweeps her hands over one of the tables. "I can picture it now," she says dreamily, "Everyone in town, here, eating my pretzels. People gathering and talking and laughing and _communing_, you know?"

He grins and watches her weave in between tables like a Disney princess sauntering through her fairytale forest.

She starts gesticulating wildly with her free hand as she spitballs, "We could put something decorative on each table. Maybe a succulent or a candle or fresh flowers or something. And I could play our favorite show tunes over the speakers. Oh, and here!" She stops abruptly under the archway, her champagne sloshing against the sides of the flute. "This is where we put the giant pretzel. Every customer will pass under it."

Her use of _we_ makes his heart sing.

Watching her float around the space, so happy and animated and bubbling over with anticipation only chips away at his dwindling will power to resist loving her even more. He used to think he loved her, during the affair, when their relationship was a heady cocktail of sex and danger and secrets. He sees clearly now that he had _no fucking idea_ what it meant to love her. It's almost laughable to him now. What a fool he was. To be this deeply in love with her as a person, not with some idea of her or some twisted projection of who he thought she was, is something he never could have fathomed in those days. How ironic that their relationship was once almost solely based on chasing sexual release. And now, their relationship is completely devoid of sexual intimacy, yet is intensely intimate in so many other ways. Ways he didn't even know he was capable of.

"Aren't you excited?! I'm so excited!" she squeals, hopping toward him.

"I am excited," he says, content. "I do have one idea of my own. Besides axing the gluten-free pretzel."

Her eyes go wide and she grips his forearm enthusiastically, pulling him closer. "Please! Tell me all your ideas!"

"I was thinking we could employ women released from prison. There's a government program, actually, with tax incentives for businesses. You and I both know they have such a hard time finding jobs and reintegrating into –"

Rebecca grabs the back of Nathaniel's neck and slams her lips into his.

His eyes fly open in surprise, only to see hers squeezed shut and her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Their noses bump uncomfortably into each other and she lets out a muffled _oof_ sound against his lips. She sinks down to the ground from her tiptoes and he follows, letting his eyes drift closed as she slowly drags her lips over his, taking his bottom lip into her mouth.

The kiss is a multitude of dualities, none of which should be able to exist together. It's familiar, yet new. Clumsy, yet comforting. It's thrilling, breathtaking, exhilarating, but, at the same time, it feels like coming home. He wants to cry, he wants to laugh, he wants to shout at the top of his lungs. He wants to gather her in his arms and whisk her away, yet he wants to live in this moment forever. His body is on fire, yet a shiver nips at his neck.

Her lips are tangy and sweet, the faint odor of alcohol clinging to her breath. She exhales through her nose with a contented sigh and the sound shoots tingles up his spine. His fingers grow restless. He wants to feel her, surrender to his urge to devour her. With a movement a bit too sudden, he tries to cup her jaw, intending to deepen the kiss and weave his fingers through her hair. However, he's forgotten about the champagne glass he's holding, and it slips out of his hand and falls onto the ground. The plastic clatters on the cement and the champagne splashes onto their ankles.

They both jump, breaking away from each other.

"Sorry! Oh god, I'm sorry," she exclaims, her voice high-pitched and louder than normal. She's panting, breathless, and her eyes dart down to her shoes like she's been scolded.

"No, it's –" he starts.

"No?"

"I mean, it's OK."

"Sorry. That was . . . I got, um, swept up in the moment," she says, shaking her head.

Nathaniel bends down and picks up the glass off the ground. When he stands back up, Rebecca is touching her fingertips to her lips with a dazed expression.

"We should go," she says, "I have to finish my song. I think I told you Heather and Valencia are even coming. So. Yeah. I should go."

He swallows. "Sure. I'll, um, walk you to your car."

Not a word is uttered as they walk side-by-side to the street at a respectful distance. He follows her to the driver's side of the car and she turns around and leans against it, her eyes darting around, unsure where to look. On any other day, he would give her a quick kiss on the cheek and be on his way. He wouldn't think twice about it. However, after what just transpired, their normal routine seems strangely both too intimate and not intimate enough at the same time.

Part of him worries that the kiss was Rebecca-typical impulsivity. But the way her lips slanted over his, insistent and hungry, the way her fingernails dug into the back of his neck, the way she sighed into his mouth, didn't feel like impulsivity at all. It felt like the rush of a dam breaking after months of buildup. Or maybe he's projecting.

The silence is unnerving. Her chest rises and falls with each labored, shallow breath and he sees in her eyes something he hasn't since their last big fight. Fear. Not fear of _him_, but the fear of the consequences of her actions.

She wrings her hands together as she stares up at him, her eyes pleading for him to make the next move. The last thing he wants is for her to spiral over this – to think she's made some kind of monumental mistake that will jeopardize their relationship. With the intention of reassuring her everything can be normal, if that's what she wants, he leans down to peck her on the cheek as usual. That is, until her eyes track down to his lips and her mouth parts, and it's all the encouragement he needs to change his trajectory. He lingers one more brief moment, then kisses her on the lips. It's gentle, soft, and lasts only a few seconds. But he's done it. He's made a choice.

Her eyes stay closed for a beat longer after he pulls away. She wets her lips as her eyes flutter open and she smiles at him, beams, as if she has a secret.

They're free falling. Now it's only a matter of time.


	14. Kiss Me

**October 7, 2020**

Rebecca doesn't think Nathaniel will show, but he does and right on schedule. Six o'clock, as usual. It's just enough time for him to change out of his work clothes, choose a beverage of an alcoholic persuasion, and drive to her apartment. As usual, AJ lets him in, and, as usual, Nathaniel finds her in bed, curled up into a ball on top of the comforter, a throw pillow hugged to her chest.

If nothing else, at least her period is predictable. The painful side effects, unfortunately, are just as predictable, though they are lessened by Nathaniel's similarly predictable monthly visit.

"Hi."

"Hi yourself," she mumbles, her voice muffled by the pillow.

He leans against the door frame, a bottle of red wine in his hand, not crossing the threshold. Usually he opens with some teasing of her condition, but today he's quiet and waits for her to speak first.

"Wasn't sure if you'd come," she says.

"Why?"

Her mouth opens but no words come out.

_You know why, _she wants to say. _You must know why. How could you __**not**_ _know why?_

Mere days ago, they kissed. Fully kissed. Lips-on-lips, mouth-on-mouth kissed. Not on the cheek or her forehead. Not on the back of her hand or her temple or the inside of her wrist or all the places he's found to kiss her that can pass as platonic. Their only interactions since that day have been a handful of benign texts and a stilted exchange at the Rebetzel's counter. They've tiptoed around the incident, neither of them willing to break the seal and acknowledge what happened. Rebecca hasn't told a soul about it – not even Paula.

He fidgets with the bottle and his eyes dart around nervously. Is he thinking about the kiss too? As she squints up at him from the bed, she wonders if he's prompting her with that question. Does he want her to say it out loud?

After several moments of loaded silence, he says with a shrug, "Guess I'm a creature of habit."

He steps into the room and runs right into the baby-blue heating pad she chucked across the room in a fit of rage hours ago.

"What happened here?" he asks, poking the offending object with his toe.

"Broken," she groans, "I'm in hell."

"Aww," he coos, pouting his lips in a mock-pitying expression.

"Fuck you," she says with a laugh.

He chuckles, stepping over the heating pad to perch on the edge of her bed.

"You can't be mad at me, kid," he says, his voice all warmth and affection. He uses his free hand to brush away a strand of hair that's fallen across her forehead.

A slow smile spreads across her lips, his presence and his touch completely overshadowing her feigned annoyance.

"Why not?"

"Because," he says, smooth as silk, "I brought a bottle of that Napa cabernet you love. _And_ I saw a commercial for some _Bachelor_ or _Bachelor_-adjacent thing that we could watch."

Her eyebrow quirks up. "Really? Alright, you can stay, I guess."

"I thought so."

He rises from the bed and leaves her for the kitchen. As he's shuffling through the drawer for a corkscrew, she struggles to haul herself up against the headboard. It's not as comfortable as the fetal position when it comes to her pain, but she feels obligated to try to be a semi-functioning human. She grabs the laptop from the bed's edge and opens the lid, navigating to her bookmarked streaming site.

He returns moments later with two wine glasses expertly entwined between his fingers, corkscrew in the other hand. He nudges the door closed behind him with his hip and deposits the accoutrements on her night table.

As he pours the wine, a wave of a cramp crashes over her and she whines, "God, it feels like there are a thousand tiny miners with pickaxes hammering away at my uterus."

"That's . . . a visual. Hopefully this helps," he says, handing her a glass.

She gladly accepts it and sticks her nose inside. "Mmm, I do love this wine," she hums, inhaling its fruity yet floral scent. "Don't tell me how much it costs or I'll feel guilty."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

His glass is filled much higher than hers, which is unusual considering he's usually the one commenting on her heavy pouring hand. He taps his glass to hers and takes a drink. A long one. He drains most of the glass while she watches, eyes wide.

"You OK there? Usually you're the one telling me to _slow down_ and _sip_ and _savor it, Rebecca_," she says, putting on a scolding, masculine affectation.

He gazes into his glass for a moment, then says, completely ignoring her cartoonish impression of him, "It's been a long few days, I guess."

"Oh," she says, hoping he'll elaborate and wondering again if their kiss could be on his mind.

He clears his throat. "I wired the money for the Sugar Face property today," he states.

Her eyes narrow, unconvinced. "I've never seen you flinch at any amount of money. Are you sure that's all it is?"

He takes another sip and pauses, as if he's collecting his thoughts before he speaks. "That's all," he finally says and reaches for the wine bottle to refill his glass.

To be fair, from her experience in commercial real estate, she knows the property has to be worth close to a million dollars. It may have even gone for more than a million if there were competing bidders. He hasn't told her if he paid in cash or financed the investment, but she does know he's funding it with his own money, not the firm's. Of course, she also can't forget the amount of pressure he puts on himself (not to mention the amount of pressure from his father) to be successful. It's something she understands all too well from growing up with a mother who pushed her so hard she developed an almost pathological need to overachieve. She can't exactly blame him for needing a stiff one and lets the subject drop.

"So what _Bachelor_ crap are they peddling this week? _Bachelor in Paradise_? _Bachelor Pad_? _Bachelor: Who Gave me an STD_?" she asks.

"It worries me that I don't know which one of those are real. I don't know. It's some special event. Something _dramatic_, as always."

Nathaniel settles in next to her against the headboard, his arm brushing her shoulder.

She clicks play and the host is standing in a studio surrounded by bouquets of roses and an overabundance of lit candles. The studio audience is noticeably missing, hundreds of empty chairs in the background. He begins, "_It's been six months since Kyle ended his relationship with Jenna and proposed to Brooke. A lot has happened since then, and tonight we'll find out all the details."_

"What is this?" Rebecca asks, shifting to try to find a comfortable position, tucking a leg underneath her.

"You think I follow this stuff?"

The host continues, "_All of America watched when bachelor Kyle got down on one knee and proposed to Brooke in what was one of the most romantic moments we've seen on The Bachelor in a long time. As you can see, we have no audience here tonight because what you're about to witness is potentially so dramatic –"_

"Oh god," Nathaniel groans, rolling his eyes.

"– _so emotionally difficult –"_

"Jesus, did he kill her or something?" she quips.

"– _we decided, out of respect for the parties involved, to keep the taping of tonight's special as intimate as possible."_

Trying to alleviate some of her pain, Rebecca changes positions, raising her knees to her chest while cradling the wine glass against her. She leans against Nathaniel's side and he immediately wraps his arm around her shoulders, anchoring her.

"You OK?"

"Everything hurts and I'm dying," she whines.

"Speaking of dramatic," he says with a smirk, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

On screen, Kyle joins the host for a solo interview. "_I came here to find someone like Brooke,"_ Kyle says. "_She is incredible, sweet, beautiful. Since the show ended, things have been different. We're not right for each other."_

"Oh shit," Rebecca gasps and Nathaniel chuckles, low and rumbling, near her ear.

If nothing else, at least the show provides a distraction from her eviscerating pain. The stimulation of Nathaniel's closeness doesn't hurt either. His arm around her, strong and secure, his masculine scent, and the downy fabric of his t-shirt against her cheek are enough to help her forget the day she spent in bed in utter agony.

Kyle continues, "_And as easy and as beautiful and wonderful as we all saw six months ago and how I lived it . . . since then the chemistry has been completely different. Over the last few weeks, I haven't been able to stop thinking about Jenna."_

"Oh my god," Nathaniel mutters, surprised, into his wine glass. Rebecca lifts her head from his chest to give him a sidelong glance. "Didn't see that coming, I guess."

"_I've tried for Brooke's sake, for our relationship's sake, but I can't. I'm doing all I can to make this work with Brooke, but I can't control how I'm feeling. They're real, honest, true feelings."_

Nathaniel tips his head back and downs the remainder of his glass in one long gulp.

"Slow down, tiger," she snarks, borrowing a phase he's said to her many times in the past.

"I need one more. Top you off?" he asks when the show breaks for a series of advertisements. He disentangles his arm from around her and reaches for her glass.

"Uh, sure," she says with a dubious tilt of her head as she relinquishes her glass. "I guess that's three glasses for you and one for me then?"

His hand fumbles a little with the glass, a stark contrast from his usual finesse.

"You spill red wine on my comforter, you die," she warns.

"I'm fine," he asserts a little too emphatically.

"By the by, and completely unrelated to anything, how much have you eaten today? And disgusting green smoothies don't count."

"Not important," he says dismissively over his shoulder as he pours.

Rebecca presses the throw pillow to her abdomen, arranging and rearranging herself into several configurations to try to find a more comfortable position.

"What are you doing?" he asks as he observes her tossing and turning.

She grunts in frustration. "Ugh, sorry. I can't get comfortable. As you know, my heating pad broke. And I'm out of Advil but I was in too much pain to go to the store and I didn't want to ask AJ because then we have to have this whole snarky back-and-forth thing –"

"Do you want me to rub your shoulders or something?" he offers, "Would that help?"

It won't help, technically. Not with her cramps, at least. But it will loosen up her muscles and hopefully help her relax, and truthfully she has trouble refusing any opportunity to be closer to him.

"Sure, if you're offering," she says casually, as if she's not salivating at the thought of his hands on her.

"Come 'ere," he says, gesturing to the spot between his legs and setting his wine glass down on the table.

She shuffles over his leg so she's sitting between his knees, almost in his lap. At first, she doesn't make any contact, instead hovering within the valley of his legs. Her body hums with tension as she waits for him to touch her. His hands come to rest on her shoulders and he starts by kneading the base of her neck with his thumbs.

"So, um, how's the song-writing going?" he says, as if they're two people waiting for the same elevator making small talk. "You said your whole girl gang is gonna be there?"

She swallows hard. He's not being gentle, his thumbs digging deliciously hard into the tense muscles of her neck and back.

"Yeah, the girls are coming. Even Greg said he might be there. Makes me a little nervous, honestly."

"Really? I didn't think you got nervous anymore. You seem so comfortable up there."

She stifles a moan when his thumb presses into a knot in her right shoulder.

Letting out a shaky exhale, she says, "There are still things I have a hard time writing about."

Him. What she wants to say but wouldn't dare is that she has a hard time writing about him. The song she's performing on Friday had lyrics about Nathaniel in its first draft. In the second draft, she got cold feet and changed the lyrics so they were more vague, less obviously about Nathaniel. She deleted those too. Now, the song is scrubbed of all signs of him, leaving her feeling like a fraud. What kind of songwriter is she if she can't express what's in her heart?

The irony of it all is that she's not afraid of Nathaniel hearing her words. (The lyrics were tame to begin with, only alluding to romantic feelings without outright stating them.) No, what scares her is the others. What scares her is exposing her feelings in front of all the people she knows, particularly the people who were so adamant that she should be with Greg. Frankly, the thought of even _implying_ her feelings for Nathaniel in front of everyone terrifies her. Every time she sang the lyrics out loud in her apartment, she imagined Valencia with her arms crossed, disappointed.

The show snaps her out of her thoughts. Brooke is now on-screen with Kyle, crying, "_I wish more than anything, that last day, you would have just let me go instead of doing this to me."_

It's hard to keep her attention on the screen when Nathaniel's fingers are playing her like a finely-tuned piano.

"This is rough," Nathaniel says, his eyes glued to the laptop, apparently not having as difficult of a time following along. "Breaking up with her on national television. I almost feel like I shouldn't be watching."

"Mmm hmm," she hums, closing her eyes and tilting her head to the side to give him better access to the side of her neck. He moves the collar of her shirt to the side, revealing her bare shoulder. She's not wearing a bra and she suspects this is why he hesitates before pressing his thumb deep into the muscle where her neck meets her shoulder.

She lets out a sigh and unabashedly leans into his hands.

"Good?"

She opens her eyes and in her periphery he's staring down at her, his lips parted. At that moment, a surge of a cramp hits and she winces reflexively and grabs her abdomen.

He stops massaging her shoulders and leans forward, trailing one of his hands so it lingers over her stomach.

"Show me where it hurts," he whispers and nudges her hand.

"Um," she breathes, taking his hand and guiding it to the trouble spot on her left side, "when I do this, it helps for some reason."

She pushes his fingers slightly underneath the waistband of her leggings into the skin of her abdomen. He kneads the spot, mimicking the way she pressed into it and, god, it's so much better than her own hands, it's criminal. Like an intrusive thought, it reminds her of the first time they had sex, when he spooned her from behind and slipped his hand between her legs, whispering into her ear, "Show me how to touch you."

She shivers at the memory, all her nerve-endings suddenly at attention.

Dropping his other arm so he's fully enveloping her, he rests his hand on the other side of her abdomen and whispers, "I know it's not as good as a heating pad, but you do always say my body's like a furnace."

"Guess it's finally good for something," she jokes nervously.

Despite what he says, she knows it's not just the temperature of his hands that's causing her to heat up. They're crossing a line. This is not something friends do. This is intimate. And not stay-up-all-night-and-tell-secrets or braid-each-other's-hair intimate.

She's not sure when it happened, but Jenna is on-screen and Brooke long gone.

Jenna is saying to the host, "_Those kinds of feelings don't just disappear because you don't see them." _She's as tall and lithe and beautiful as Rebecca remembers, her golden hair swept back in a flawless updo.

"Lean back and relax," Nathaniel whispers in her ear, his breath hot and boozy on her neck.

She rolls her shoulders and lets her body meld to his, her back flush against his chest with his nose buried in her hair somewhere behind her ear.

"_. . . Brooke was out here earlier, and I ended things with her because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you. My heart hasn't let go. My head hasn't let go,"_ Kyle says, his voice merely background noise at this point.

Nathaniel begins kissing the exposed skin of her shoulder. Feather-light, tentative, testing the waters. Her heart pounds with excitement and she suddenly becomes hyper aware of every place their bodies connect.

The rational part of her brain is yelling at her to stop and think about what they're doing. What _are_ they doing? A few days ago they shared an innocent kiss and now he's on her bed, his hands literally down her pants. Are they friends? Are they more? What does more mean exactly and is she ready for it? And how drunk is he? Are they going to kiss again? Have sex?

While her mind may be a scrambled mess, her body is singing. He feels warm and cozy and solid and big and male and all around her, surrounding her. Trailing kisses from her shoulder up to her neck, he somehow keeps getting closer and closer until there's no empty space between them. She's overwhelmed by how damn good his lips feel on her, the heavenly masculine smell of him up close, and the sight of his large hands dangerously close to a place she's dreamed about him touching.

Just as her eyes are fluttering closed, about to give in completely to the physical sensations, he abruptly stops kissing her and sucks in a breath.

"Sorry, I can't –" he rasps.

Oh no. Her eyes fly open and she shifts in his arms to try to gauge his expression, worried she did something wrong.

"I can't . . . I don't want to fight this anymore," he whispers, his eyeline dropping to her mouth.

"Kiss me."

All it takes is for him to lean forward slightly and he's kissing her, his hand raising to cup her jaw and draw her close. As soon as their lips meet, she's lost. She covers the hand on her face with her own to prove to herself it's real, he's real, and this is really happening. Then, she skims her fingers up his arm to his shoulder, to the back of his neck. She urges him on with the press of her fingertips on the back of his neck. He opens his mouth wide, eager and hungry.

He tastes dark, spicy, bitter, with a hint of sweetness underneath. And like Nathaniel, the Nathaniel she remembers. She may not be able to discern flavor notes of wine the way Nathaniel can – it all just tastes like wine to her – but she can taste every nuance of him. She's thirsty for him, wants to get drunk on him.

Impatient and needy, she turns in his arms and straddles him. She's all awkward, scrambling limbs as she climbs on top of him and pushes him down onto the bed, her lips never leaving his. He goes willingly, keeping both his hands steady around her waist to guide her. Once he's reclined and she's settled into his lap, she fully pounces. She kisses him hard, harder than she's ever kissed anyone. She kisses him like, at any moment, he might disappear and it will all have been some cruel, ephemeral fantasy. Her thumbs press into his cheeks, leaving little Rebecca-sized indents. He kisses her with equal fervor and matches her movements beat-by-beat. His hands settle at her hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive inner part of her thighs.

In the background, the host asks Kyle, "_Are you still in love with Jenna?"_

"_Yes,"_ Kyle says resolutely.

Rebecca reaches out blindly and slams the laptop shut, shoving it toward the foot of the bed.

She slips her tongue into his mouth and he moans, the sound vibrating against her lips and ripping through her like an electrical current straight to her core.

Between kisses, he mumbles something unintelligible against her lips.

"Hmm?" she hums and breaks the kiss, leaning back so she can see his face. As she sinks back into his lap, the friction causes him to let out a strangled, hissing sound. He trails his hand up to her neck and caresses the column of her throat.

"I said I miss you," he whispers, his words slurring.

She squishes her eyebrows together. "What? I see you all the time."

"Like this," he says, his hips bucking slightly as he rubs his thumb down her neck, "I miss you like this. I miss this."

His eyes turn watery and he tugs at the back of her neck, bringing her mouth back down to his. He rolls her over onto her back, sinking down between her legs. His solid weight on top of her is everything she's been longing for, dreaming of, and wanting, wanting, wanting.

_I want you_, she thinks. _I want you. I want you. I want you._

The three words hum through her veins, fill up all her cells, get breathed in and out with every inhale and exhale. It's all she can think. It's all she knows.

_I want you. _

She presses her fingernails hard into the skin of his back, wishing she could imprint herself on him. The feral, cavewoman part of her wants to mark him, own him, so he can never put his lips on anyone else ever again.

_I want you._

He ducks his head and kisses a ticklish spot just below her ear and she says it, breathes it into the air, giving the words life, "I want you."

When she says it, he stops moving for a moment, then nuzzles her neck and rasps, "I want to go down on you."

She breathes, "Nathaniel –"

"I want to make you feel so good."

He does that – tells her what he wants to do before he does it. It's one of the many things she loved about having sex with him. There was never any unwanted surprises and every whispered promise in her ear exponentially heightened the anticipation for what was to come.

He resumes kissing her, rubbing his hard-on against her thigh as proof he wants to make good on his words. She whimpers and shifts her hips, trying to connect her clit with something, anything to relieve the deep pang of arousal building at her center.

One of his hands leaves her waist to skim up and under her shirt. His fingertips blaze a trail of fire over the skin of her stomach up to her chest. He cups her bare breast and she breaks the kiss, gasping, "Oh god."

He smiles and playfully nudges her nose with his own. "You're so soft," he whispers, running his thumb over her nipple.

They're going to have sex. Now. Sex. Nathaniel. Sex. It's happening. It's not some fantastic, libidinal dream. He's here, in her bed, kissing her, touching her.

Her mind races as she mentally speeds through what's about to happen. Given his tipsy state, she hopes that he remembers she has her period. He's never had a problem with it before, but there are certain logistics to be considered. At some point, she has to take out her menstrual cup. Should she do it now? After he goes down on her? The last thing she wants is to interrupt the moment, a moment she's been dreaming about for months. And then, what if they have sex? She gave all of her condoms to AJ after the big, three-way breakup to force herself into celibacy while she focused on her songwriting.

"Do you have a condom?" she blurts out.

Nathaniel's mouth drops open. "Uh . . . no. I didn't . . . I haven't been keeping one on me."

"Oh," she exhales, panic starting to set in.

"You're on birth control."

"I know, but . . . have you been tested lately? When's the last time you got tested?"

He props himself on his forearms, his eyes searching hers. His pupils are blown wide with arousal, his cheeks flush. He shakes his head slightly, as if trying to regain control of his brain, "Um, I don't know. I don't remember. Probably the last time you asked me to. Whenever that was."

Another cramp rears its ugly head and she bites her lip, her face twisting up in agony.

"Shit," she mutters.

"Are you still in pain?"

Rebecca drags her hand across her forehead, her head swimming. This is not how it was supposed to happen. She's not supposed to be in pain and out of condoms and on her period with a full menstrual cup inside her. He's not supposed to be on his third glass of wine on an empty stomach, probably so drunk the memory of the night will be hazy.

"All wrong. This is all wrong." she says quietly to herself.

Nathaniel blinks slowly, his face falling. "Oh," he exhales, "Sorry." He slowly rolls off of her and backs up against the headboard, scrubbing his hand over his face.

She bolts up to a sitting position. "I just," she starts, frantically smoothing her hair into place, "Shouldn't we stop and think –"

He throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands, sucking in a deep breath. "I get it," he says, the edge in his tone taking her by surprise, "I'm gonna go to the –"

Unsteady on his feet, he sways as he walks out of the bedroom.

"Nathaniel –" she calls after him, exasperated just before she hears the bathroom door click shut.

"Fuck," she whispers and buries her face in both her hands, "Fuck. What is wrong with me?"

Her heart races as she succumbs to a barrage of looping thoughts, which only intensify the longer Nathaniel is in the bathroom. He's been gone for a long time. Maybe he's throwing up or passed out. Maybe he's masturbating or waiting for his erection to die down. Or maybe he feels rejected and is drowning in the same uncertainty she is. Maybe he left the apartment all together and she didn't hear him leave.

Would he leave? The only thing she knows for sure is that she does _not_ want him to leave her like this. There's already way too much ambiguity between them, and she knows she will be up all night wondering what he's thinking and what he's doing and where they stand if he leaves.

The toilet flushes and she sighs with relief.

He returns to the bedroom a few moments later, stumbling a bit over his own feet. He stands at the edge of her bed with his forehead furrowed looking conflicted, lost.

"I don't think I can drive," he says.

"Stay. Please stay," she says, humiliated by how desperate she sounds.

He looks at the door then back again at her.

"You don't have to take the couch," she says, reading his thoughts.

"Um," he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, squinting through the fog of alcohol, "OK."

She draws back the comforter and he climbs into the bed. He lies down next to her on his back, and she leans over and turns off the light. She stares up at the ceiling, eyes wide open, her breathing shallow and shaky. Her body feels paralyzed with fear. In the light of morning will he think this was a mistake? Does he reciprocate her feelings or were his actions tonight the result of a tempting mixture of alcohol and months of suppressed physical urges? There's so much she wants to say, but wouldn't even know where to begin.

"Nathaniel," she whispers to the ceiling, "I want this, but you're drunk and I have these truly heinous cramps. I guess I've wanted this so long that I wanted it to be perfect. Maybe that's dumb, I don't know. Is that dumb?"

He's silent, so silent it's unnerving. She turns on her side to face him.

"Nathaniel –"

She stops short when she sees his face slack, mouth slightly open, his breathing heavy. It will have to wait until the morning. After watching him for a few minutes, she tucks herself into his side, resting her hand on his stomach. Nathaniel shifts in his sleep and mumbles some quiet nonsense, wrapping his arm instinctively around her shoulders. She cuddles in close, resting her head on his chest to listen to his thrumming heartbeat.

Every nagging doubt and insecurity swirl around in her head as she tries to fall asleep. Of course the fear that he may not reciprocate her feelings has been on her mind for quite some time. But part of her also fears the possibilities even if he did love her back. Their past relationship – affair, whatever you want to call it – was bad. And wrong. They hurt each other (and other people) in the process. Are they both truly different now or would they revert back into unhealthy patterns? If they tried again, would they crash and burn?

As she gazes up at him sleeping, peaceful and oblivious to her internal struggles, she realizes all she wants is for him to be happy. He's carved out a life for himself that brings him joy. That was no easy feat, she knows. He's come a long way and the last thing she wants is for their relationship to disrupt the life he's created or undo all his hard-earned growth.

She rubs her hand over his chest and whispers, "I love you," into his t-shirt.

Tomorrow, they'll talk. When he's sober and they're both hours separated from this horrendous thwarted attempt at sex, she'll make sure they finally have an honest conversation. She vows to herself, as she lets her breathing sync with his, that she'll do the right thing for the both of them, whatever it may be.


	15. Let's Talk

**October 8, 2020**

When Nathaniel wakes, his mouth is dry, a dull throb behind his eyes. He straightens out his legs to stretch and immediately registers a pleasant weight on his chest. Cracking his eyes open, the first thing he sees is Rebecca's chestnut curls fanning out over his bicep, her nose tucked adorably into his t-shirt near his armpit. Her forehead is smooth, all her features relaxed, and her mouth hangs half-open with a hint of drool at the corner of her lips.

He runs his fingertips lightly through her hair then down her arm, allowing himself the momentary indulgence of watching her sleep. He wants to commit it all to memory – the sight of her so serene and peaceful in his arms, her achingly familiar smell, the cozy warmth of her body at his side. When he shifts the most miniscule amount to stretch his stiff muscles, she nuzzles deeper into the crook of his arm. He wants to memorize that too. All of it. Every tiny detail of this moment. These are the moments he took for granted during the scant, blissful few weeks they dated. Then, he spent years longing for those same moments like some lovesick fool, hoping someday he would have the opportunity to recreate them.

And like the perpetual lovesick fool he is, he drops his nose into her hair and inhales, breathing her in. Truly pathetic. He tries to shush that voice in his head, idly wondering if they could spend the entire day snuggled up in bed together. Unfortunately, he cannot turn off the voice telling him that it's still a work day, no matter how amazing it feels to wake up with her like this.

He glances over at the night table where his phone is resting. Though he wants to know exactly how late to work he'll be, he also doesn't want to disturb her sleep and let the moment slip away. The empty wine bottle next to his phone sparks a blurry string of memories, culminating in Rebecca's echoing words that make his stomach lurch:

_All wrong. This is all wrong. _

Mere seconds before she uttered those devastating words, she had kissed him so intensely, so passionately, he could have sworn they were on the same page. He even dared to believe she loved him. None of it makes any sense. The more he thinks about the sequence of events, the less he understands.

Worry, stark and foreboding, looms over him like a dark cloud. He still doesn't want to wake her, but not because he wants to stay in the warm halo of morning-after bliss. No, now he fears the conversation to come once she rouses from her dreams. Though he may be slightly hungover, he can still envision the outcome with terrifying clarity – her, pushing him away, running away. The thought makes him ill. Is he stuck running in circles, forever chasing her, futilely hoping one day it will be different?

With reluctance, he slides his arm out from underneath her and manages to ease out of bed with only a minimal amount of jostling. Rebecca stirs when his feet hit the hardwood and he freezes. Without opening her eyes, she grabs his pillow and hugs it closer, burrowing her face into it with a gentle smile on her lips.

After closing the door quietly behind him, he pads into the kitchen while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He fetches a drinking glass from the cabinet, fills it to the brim with water from the faucet, and chugs it with gusto.

For a brief moment he contemplates leaving. At the very least, it would buy him some time to think about what he wants to say. Truth be told, if she thinks last night was a mistake, he wants to be the one to say it first. For once, he wants the control. For once, he wants to be the one who walks away without a gigantic bruise to his ego and an even bigger one on his heart.

The problem with leaving, however, is that he knows her too well. He knows about her abandonment issues. He remembers her recounting of Greg leaving her in the middle of an argument and her subsequent spiral. When it comes to Rebecca, leaving is the nuclear option. The last thing he wants is to blow up their entire relationship over one drunken make out.

Footsteps tip-tap down the hall and he holds his breath. When AJ crosses the threshold into the kitchen, he stops short and his eyes go wide. He assesses Nathaniel head-to-toe as he stands there, smackdab in the middle of their kitchen in his pajamas as he wipes his lips with the back of his hand.

A playful smile then tugs at his lips and he's back to his snarky self. "Thank god," he says with a groan, "This whole will-they, won't-they crap has been _exhausting_. I never pegged you as the type to move this slow. Guess I owe Mrs. Hernandez twenty bucks."

Rebecca's door creaks open and she scurries to the bathroom without even casting a glance their way.

AJ quirks his eyebrow at Nathaniel and says, "Walk of shame, huh? So, did you salt her pretzel? Or would it be _she_ who salted _your_ pretzel?"

Nathaniel runs his hand over his face. "What? Ew. No. Not really. It's complicated," he says.

AJ crosses his arms and says, "I fail to see how this is complicated. What I _do_ see is you pining away for her every morning at the Rebetzel's counter. Following her into the women's bathroom. And buying Sugar Face for her! None of _my_ friends are dropping hundreds of thousands of dollars on commercial real estate for me, I'll tell you that much. And that's only the stuff _I_ know about. So please explain to me how this is complicated, because it seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Hold on. I didn't buy Sugar Face for her, per se . . . "

Before he can elaborate, Rebecca joins them in the kitchen, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, all the makeup rubbed off her face.

"Hey," she says to Nathaniel, hesitantly, a shy smile on her lips.

Nathaniel sets the water glass down on the kitchen island. "Hey," he replies in a gentle tone reserved only for her.

"Can we talk?"

Nathaniel's stomach drops.

"That's never a good sign," AJ says warily. He gestures back-and-forth with his two pointer fingers, adding, "There's some weird ass energy between you two."

In a voice much more polite than their usual quippy back-and-forth, Rebecca asks, "AJ, can you give us some space please?"

"So, no carpool today then or . . .?"

Rebecca locks eyes with Nathaniel, her expression soft and pleading.

"I'll take that as a no," AJ says and walks out the front door, leaving them alone.

Rebecca leads them to the couch and sits, patting the seat next to her. He sits a few inches away, careful not to touch her. Turning slightly toward her, he searches her face for any hints of what's going on behind her eyes. He wishes more than anything he could read her mind, but her gaze is fixed on her lap, her fingers picking at her cuticles, giving him nothing to go on. The silence is a proverbial game of chicken that grows more uncomfortable with each second that passes.

He takes a deep breath. "About last night –" he starts.

"You think it was a mistake," she finishes, as if she knew the ending of the sentence before he even did.

"That's not . . . Do _you_ think it was a mistake?"

"You had a real deer-in-headlights look back there," she says, nodding toward the kitchen, "and I thought maybe _you_ thought it was a mistake."

She finally makes eye contact with him, lifting her eyebrows expectantly. For some reason she seems so much smaller than usual. While their size disparity has always been there, he rarely notices it, her larger-than-life personality often filling up their gap in stature. Barefaced and barefoot and with her hair pulled back, she looks so vulnerable – meek, even – and it makes his breath catch.

She's rubbing her hand up and down her own arm compulsively and he has to shake off the urge to soothe her. Determined to stick to the facts, he states, "Last night, you said what we did was wrong."

Shaking her head, she stops him before he can say more. "I know. I'm sorry," she says, "I guess I thought if we started sleeping together again, it would be different."

_If we started sleeping together again_, he repeats in his mind. So this is about sex? It always comes back to sex with them, doesn't it? If there's one thing he knows for certain it's that he cannot be her friend with benefits. He can't be her confidant and her support system and her best friend and her fuck buddy, then someday watch her fall in love with someone else. He's self-aware enough to know he can't handle that.

More than anything, he realizes, he's mad at himself. He chose to come over here, fresh off their kiss at Sugar Face. He brought over a bottle of wine. He drank too much. He offered her a massage. He put his hands down her pants. He initiated everything. All of it. If he destroyed their friendship because he can't keep his hands to himself, then it's his own damn fault. If she's about to reject him for the millionth time, he asked for it. Deep down, he knew it could happen. He knew he could end up in the same place he's been over and over again with her.

It hits him like a slap in the face, then. All the countless hours he's spent with her since he returned from Guatemala when he could have been finding someone else who could actually love him in return. All the wasted time.

Like a reaction to being burned, he blurts out, "I can't do this anymore."

Her mouth forms an o-shape and she lets out a long, shaky exhale. "Wh- What do you mean?"

"We both know what happens when we sleep together. I can't go through it all again. I can't go backwards. I can't –"

"No, Nathaniel, I don't want that either," she interrupts, her voice a little frantic, bolting to the edge of her seat.

"Please," he says, holding up both his hands, "I'm trying . . . There are things I need to say to you."

Rebecca's gaze flits back down to her hands. "Sorry, keep going."

He clears his throat and says, "Since I came back from Guatemala, you know I've been trying to date other people."

Again, Rebecca erupts in an outburst, covering her face with both hands, "Oh god, you're seeing someone else. You have a girlfriend."

He recoils. "What? No, god no," he says, his defenses rising. "When would I even have time for a girlfriend? I'm with you all the time. God, can you just listen to me for five seconds?"

He doesn't mean for it to come out as harshly as it does, but after all this time and how deeply they've grown to know each other, he's offended. How could she think he's still capable of behaving like he did during the darkest chapter in their history?

Rebecca squeezes her eyes shut. "Sorry. I'll shut up now, I promise."

"I told you I deleted those apps months ago. I did it because I was spending all my free time with you. And every woman . . . I measured every woman against you. I would ask myself: _Are they as smart as Rebecca? As funny? As beautiful?_ When you're in my life, I can't even see anyone else. How will I ever have room in my life for someone else when all I can see is you?"

Rebecca's back to self-soothing, wringing her fingers together and biting her lip.

He continues, "As much as I love the closeness we have – I mean, god, it's what I always wanted with you – we can't keep this up forever. Believe me when I say this is killing me, but I think it's the right thing for both of us."

"Oh," she breathes. Her shoulders slump and she nods slowly, processing his words.

He scrubs his hand over his face. "Honestly, it wasn't until my mom was in the hospital that I realized how I feel about you," he says. A small, rueful chuckle bubbles up in his throat. "Again," he adds, "How I feel about you _again_. Or maybe I never stopped. I don't even know anymore."

"How you feel," she repeats softly to herself.

He's already revealed more than he wanted and it suddenly fills him with such an intense self-loathing he can't stand to even be in his own skin.

Standing from the couch in a panic, he says, "I have to go. I'm sorry. I can't be here right now."

He walks toward the door until her timid voice breaks the silence and stops him dead in his tracks.

"Do you love me?"

Hearing her say it out loud is a gut punch he wasn't prepared for. The words sting and he wishes he would have bitten his tongue clean off rather than admit his feelings again.

When he turns to face her, he can tell by her expression – so open and vulnerable and innocent – that the question has not a shred of malice behind it. She's not trying to rub salt in the wound. She simply wants to know the answer.

A pinprick stings his eyes and he's not sure how much longer he can stand in front of her, his whole body and soul aching with years of unrequited love for her. As much as he wants to give her those words, to speak out loud the feelings he's been burying deep inside, he can't do it. Without knowing if there's reciprocation on the other end of a declaration of love, he can't risk it all again.

"Please don't make me say it," he whispers, "I can't. I need –"

"What?" she asks softly, her wet eyes pleading.

As embarrassed as he is to admit it, what he needs is commitment. He doesn't even know what that would look like – all he knows is he needs it. She can't promise him forever. She can't promise they'll ride off into the sunset on horses, happily ever after. That's impossible, of course. But he needs _something_. He needs something unambiguous, tangible, and definitive. If he's going to take that leap of faith again, he needs her to be the first to jump.

"I don't know," he lies, "I'm sorry. This isn't –"

"Black-and-white?" she finishes, offering him a faint, melancholy smile. The idea seems to resonate with her, her eyes filling with tears.

Ironically, the situation has become very black-and-white for him. For once, he's the one craving a black-and-white answer. Never again can he be half-in, half-out with her. Unless she's all-in, this has to be the end of their romantic journey.

She's retreated into one of her daydreams, her gaze in soft-focus on the _Dear Evan Hansen_ piano book on her keyboard across the room. Her breathing is hurried, her brow wrinkled, mouth parted. He's seen that look before. That shell-shocked, conflicted look. She's lost in the recesses of her mind, working something out he's not privy to. It's the look that ends with opening his door to an empty hallway, heartbroken.

So that's it, he thinks. That's my answer.

"Rebecca?"

She blinks hard, snapping back to reality. "Sorry, I'm, um, processing everything," she says. Closing her eyes for a few seconds, she takes a slow, measured breath before continuing, "I'm hearing you. I'm acknowledging your feelings. If this is what you want, then I have to respect and accept it. I get it. I do."

For all the time the two of them have spent working on being better people – trying to be more mature, more evolved, more _kind_ – all he wants is for her to throw it all away. He wants to yell at her to cut it out with the therapy-speak and let her emotions spill out all over the floor. Get messy. He wants to backslide. The part of him that's disgustingly weak for her wants to collapse into her arms and take anything she's willing to give without questioning it.

He swallows hard. "I have to, um, go home, change my clothes, and go to work. And so do you," he says.

She musters a weak smile. While he's still clueless as to what she's thinking, he can tell she's putting on a brave face, letting him walk away with his dignity. It makes him love her even more, as if that were possible.

_Ask me_, he begs her in his mind, _please ask me to stay._

When his hand touches the doorknob, she suddenly gets up, as if realizing it would be rude not to show him out.

Out of sheer habit, he turns when he crosses the threshold. This is the time he would kiss her on the cheek and she rises on her toes in anticipation. If he bends down and dares tempt fate, he knows he'll kiss her – really kiss her – and he won't be able to stop. Instead, he cups her shoulder and squeezes, wishing he could telegraph all his pent-up feelings through the simple touch of his hand. Her chin quivers like she may cry.

When he turns to leave, the click of the door behind him is deafening. He has to remind himself to put one foot in front of the other, painfully aware that each step is one more away from the only woman he's ever truly loved.

As he's walking down the path away from her apartment, he hears a thud on the other side of the door.


	16. Be Mine

Starting here and starting now

I can feel the heart of how

Everything changes

"Everything Changes", _Waitress_

**October 9, 2020**

His seat is empty.

She can't stop staring at it – the empty chair next to Paula's – as it sits lonely and Nathaniel-less. The place is buzzing on open-mic Friday night, in part due to Rebecca's army of encouraging friends spread out at tables around the room. The stars have aligned for her mass of supporters to attend, which she considers both a blessing and a curse on this particular night.

At a table against one wall, Valencia and Heather animatedly catch up while Rebecca pretends to pay attention. Josh and his girlfriend occupy a table on the other side of the room. They lean into each other and playfully whisper while White Josh sits awkwardly next to them, an apparent third wheel.

If she weren't so full of nerves, Rebecca might reflect more on how she's come full circle from where she started on Valentine's Day when she had her first performance. That day, which was the last time her friends came out in droves like this, she announced in front of everyone that she finally felt ready for romantic love. And now, she _is _in love. Painfully so. How ironic that the decor, which on that fateful night was all glittery red hearts, now reflects the macabre beginnings of Halloween season with a smattering of cobwebs and hanging foam skeletons.

Rebecca is a little worse for wear after a night of little to no sleep. On a typical open-mic night, she uses the performance as an opportunity to dress up since she rarely has occasions these days to do so. She spends extra time on her makeup, primps her hair, puts on a pair of high heels and a dress. Tonight, however, her brain was too fried to make the effort. Her outfit was a marriage of convenience with the pile of laundry in the corner of the bedroom. A pair of worn jeans and a blue printed blouse were the lucky items she plucked from the top of the pile. Then, before rushing out of the apartment, she paused at the mirror in the foyer and threw some of her untamed hair into a bun on top of her head and slipped on whatever pair of flats happened to be sitting at the front door.

Valencia and Heather's tabletop chatter fades into the background of the babbling crowd because Rebecca can only concentrate on one thing – Nathaniel's unfilled seat. She sighs, despondent, cradling her chin with her elbow propped up on the table. Distantly, she registers Valencia talking about her newest big client. A politician? Or maybe she said a pediatrician? Impatient as the clock ticks closer to showtime, Rebecca loses her cool and starts waving wildly in the direction of Paula's table halfway across the room.

After a few seconds, Paula notices the chaotic gesticulations and squints back at her.

_What?_ she mouths.

Rebecca points at the chair next to Paula and whispers, exaggerating every facial muscle to convey her worry, _Is he coming? _

Paula shrugs and mouths, _I don't know_, with a frown.

Rebecca's face falls and she swivels back to Valencia and Heather only to see their disappointed faces staring back. Valencia's arms are crossed in front of her, her mouth pursed. The look. That's the look of nightmares.

"Hey, rude," Heather deadpans.

"Yeah," Valencia agrees, "we came out to support you and all you can do is stare longingly at Paula. I know you're best friends and all, but feeling a little unappreciated here."

"I'm sorry," Rebecca says, reaching across the table and squeezing both their hands. "I appreciate both of you so much. I promise I am so happy that you're here." As nonchalantly as she can, she adds, "I guess I hoped Nathaniel would come tonight, too."

Valencia bristles, sneaking an eye roll when she thinks Rebecca isn't watching.

"I'm sure he'll come," Heather reassures her. "You two are, like, annoyingly attached at the hip. Bordering on codependent."

Since Nathaniel left her apartment the day prior, they haven't communicated at all. Not even a single text. She's hanging all her hope on his need for perfect attendance, which he's effortlessly maintained since Valentine's Day. The fact that Paula hasn't heard anything is a good sign. She can't imagine Nathaniel standing up Paula with no warning, considering they use the time to discuss pro bono cases.

The door opens and Rebecca's eyes flash to it, her stomach clenching in anticipation. To her dismay, Nathaniel doesn't walk through the door. Instead –

"Gasp! Greg," Rebecca gasps.

"Oooh, are things still weird since the _wedding incident_?" Heather asks.

"He cares about you a lot," Valencia says, softening and uncrossing her arms. "You two should really patch things up. He's a good guy."

"I know. I know he is," Rebecca says. "I'll . . . try."

Greg offers the trio a timid wave and takes the seat next to White Josh.

"Of all nights, why did everyone decide to show up _tonight_?" Rebecca mutters under her breath.

"Again, ouch," Heather says.

"Yeah, why are you so jumpy and weird?" Valencia chimes in. "You're always hyping up these shows and now you don't even want us here?"

"I do want you here. Of course I do. I'm just nervous," Rebecca says.

With only minutes left before the first act, the door opens again and Rebecca sucks in a breath. But, again, her hopes are dashed when a woman she doesn't recognize walks through the door. She exhales with disappointment. That is, until the woman holds the door open for the tall patron trailing behind her.

"Nathaniel," Rebecca whispers, relief dripping from every syllable.

Valencia and Heather exchange quizzical looks, Valencia's left eyebrow arching so high it almost hits her hairline.

Nathaniel beelines to his usual seat at Paula's table and nervously scans the room. Like a magnetic pull, his eyes find her almost immediately. As soon as they make eye contact, he breaks it, as if the simple act of looking at her is too painful to endure for more than a few seconds. Paula, oblivious to their angst, points to a piece of paper on the table and Nathaniel obediently pays attention, nodding and conversing in hushed tones.

The host of the open mic, who Rebecca has come to think of as her nemesis due to his "running joke" (which she does not find funny) of purposefully never using her correct name, takes the stage. (In an act of retaliatory defiance, she refuses to learn his name.) Her pulse starts to quicken and she rubs her palms, slick with sweat, on her jeans. Despite her best efforts, she cannot stop herself from glancing over at Nathaniel as he actively avoids eye contact. Her fingers itch to touch him, to smooth away the tense wrinkles in his face, to brush the errant strand of hair off his forehead.

The first act is another singer-songwriter, accompanying himself on acoustic guitar. His song recounts a painful breakup, which is the last thing Rebecca wants to hear only one day separated from her devastating conversation with Nathaniel. As the man performs, Nathaniel's posture is stick-straight, his jaw clenched. A wave of uncertainty washes over her. The urge to bolt out of the room is overwhelming and the only thing keeping her butt glued to the seat is her belief that Nathaniel does love her. He didn't say those words _exactly_. She understands why, though, and for once doesn't think she's projecting her own feelings onto the object of her affection. She swears she saw it in his eyes. He loves her. But, like her, he has fears. Big ones. Battling all the defeatist, negative voices in her head, she resolves that she _has_ to do this. This is her opportunity to make things right.

The mood in the room is strained and somber by the time the song concludes. Seconds later, when the host calls Rebecca's name, she doesn't even register it at first, she's so lost in her own thoughts. Valencia nudges her with a pointy elbow and, when her attention comes back into focus, dozens of eyes are on her, waiting for her to take the stage.

Clutching the _Dear Evan Hansen_ piano book, she slowly climbs the small staircase to the stage, the sick feeling in her stomach intensifying with each step. She tentatively sits down at the keyboard and opens the book to a page toward the middle. The bright lights on her face and the vast, dark sea of faces fill her with a heady rush of adrenaline and fright.

She leans forward and says into the mic, "Hi, um, wow, there are a lot of people here tonight."

The room is so silent she can hear a man cough quietly into his hand somewhere to her right.

"I know I told my friends that I would be performing an original song tonight, but I can't," she begins, her voice shaky. "When I started writing music, I told myself it would always be honest and real, above all else. With everything on my mind tonight, if I sang _that_ song, it wouldn't be honest. Or real."

To her left, Valencia and Heather murmur something softly to each other. Their voices remind her of every time she erased Nathaniel from her lyrics. Until now, she didn't want to face the truth that she used their past allegiance to Greg as an excuse, as a personification of all her own insecurities and flimsy reasons not to be honest about her feelings. Now, she decides, now is the time to finally push past those fears, unafraid, and squash those voices in her head.

"So I wrote a different song for tonight. Well, I kinda wrote it," she says with a self-deprecating chuckle. "I didn't have time to write an original – I'm not that good yet. But I couldn't sleep last night, so I rewrote these lyrics instead. This is the best way I know to express what I'm feeling inside."

Rebecca places her hands over the keys and her fingers visibly tremble. She finds Nathaniel's face and visualizes everything and everyone else falling away.

"This is a song I wrote," she says with gravity, "for you."

Nathaniel's eyes dart around, wide and surprised, as if he cannot believe she could be speaking directly to him.

She takes a deep, unsteady breath, then starts to play the introductory measures to _Only Us_ from _Dear Evan Hansen_.

Nathaniel's expression lights up in recognition and he fidgets in his seat.

She sings, "_I don't need some big pitch on the reasons to want you. You've given me months of the proof that I should. You don't have to convince me. Please don't ever be scared you're not enough. 'Cause what we've got going is good."_

As much as she can without losing her place in the music, she watches Nathaniel and his reaction to her words. His lip quivers and he covers his mouth with his hand. Paula reaches across the table and gives his forearm a comforting squeeze.

"_I know all of the ways that you've had your heart broken. I can't go back and fix all the things I regret. Clear the slate and start over. Forget about Trent and Josh and Greg. You don't have to compete with all that_," she sings.

At the last line, several people in the room laugh and Rebecca gains more conviction, growing more at ease with the performance, sailing into the chorus.

"_So what if it's us? What if it's us and only us? And what came before won't count anymore or matter? Can we try that? What if it's you and what if it's me and what if that's all that we need it to be? And the rest of our lives start today. What do you say?_"

As she sings her truth, tells her story with her music, something clicks inside her. She can't believe how much time she wasted, how much energy she spent worrying about taking this leap. This is honesty. This is her truth laid bare. And with that, all of her fears melt away. The world, if only for a moment, makes sense to her.

"_It's not so impossible. No more running away, I'm staying right here. I promise it's possible. Say you'll be mine and let's face all our fears. And you're the one I want to face the world with me."_

Glancing up from her music, all she can see is him. In his eyes, she sees gratitude, affection. She sees a dazzling kaleidoscope of memories they've shared over the past eight months. The joys. The heartaches. The smiles. The tears. The singing, dancing, laughing, crying, fighting, pushing, hugging, holding. Through achievements and challenges. Through good and bad. She sees it all hanging in the air between them in that beautiful split second.

"_It'll be us, It'll be us and only us. And what came before won't count anymore. We can try that. You and me. That's all that we need it to be. And the rest of our lives start today. And the rest of our lives start today. And the rest of our lives start today. And it's only us."_

As Rebecca sings the last note of her song, drawing out the last syllable, her eyes drift shut for a moment, savoring it. When she opens them and lifts her hands from the keys, the crowd is hushed, as if everyone is collectively holding their breaths.

Rebecca stands and a few people start to nervously clap. Her friends are stunned silent, staring at Nathaniel, and the rest of the audience seem mostly confused by what they've just witnessed. Sensing the tepid response from the room, the host quickly takes the stage and starts to vamp, a signal that she should vacate the premises and make room for the next act.

Though she should be proud of her performance – she sang her heart out, a song written in one night, no less – she doesn't feel the sense of finality she thought she would. Then it hits her. Nowhere in the song did she state it explicitly – the three words Nathaniel wants, the one thing she knows he _needs_. She didn't give him those words. She never even said his name out loud.

"Wait –" she blurts out and rushes toward the host, grabbing his forearm, "Wait, can I say one more thing? It'll only take a second. Just one second. Please? Please."

Baffled, the host reluctantly hands her the mic, "Alright, Regina. Make it quick. You have thirty seconds."

"You _know _it's Rebecca," she sneers under her breath.

For a beat, she closes her eyes, trying to summon all the words that have been trapped inside her heart. When she reopens her eyes, she finds Nathaniel in the darkness. He sits forward in his seat, piqued with interest, waiting on her to speak.

"Nathaniel," she says, speaking solely to him, "I've replayed our conversation in my head about a million times in the past twenty-four hours. I let you walk away because I thought it was the right thing to do. But then I realized, as I was rehashing our conversation in painstaking detail to Dr. Akopian – sorry, I hope that's OK – that all you wanted was for me to just _say how I feel_. You wanted validation. Honesty. Affirmation. You deserve all those things after everything we've been through."

She takes a deep breath, gathering a final burst of courage.

"I love you. I'm saying it. Outloud. Unapologetically. In front of every single person I care about in this room. And all these strangers I don't know, who I'm sure are lovely. I knew I loved you from the moment you stuck your hand in the toilet for me."

A few people laugh, relieving a bit of the tension in the room.

"Here's the thing. I don't believe in _meant to be _anymore. Or signs. Or butter commercials. But I believe in you and I believe in myself. And I'm truly happy. The only thing I'm really sure of is that I want to be with you. I love you, Nathaniel."

She smiles, tight-lipped, trying to keep her chin from quivering, and her eyebrows flit up and back. She shakes her head slightly and shrugs, as if to say: _This is it. This is my whole heart._ As much as she tries to keep her composure, she knows her admiration and gratitude and irrepressible love for him is written all over her face.

Nathaniel's face goes slack, then crumples with emotion. Next to him, Paula beams from ear-to-ear, giving Rebecca an enthusiastic double thumbs up.

"So, choose me. _Pick me_," she says earnestly, tears starting to sting her eyes. "Let _me_ have that space in your heart. I'm not saying it will be easy. We're going to make mistakes. Lots of them, probably. And I _know_ that romantic love isn't an end. But I want this to be our beginning. I'm ready."

She sniffs, wiping the moisture that has gathered in the corner of her eye. "Sorry," she says, her eyes sweeping across the crowd.

As she timidly hands back the mic to the host, the tense silence is almost unbearable. To Rebecca, it feels like all the air has been zapped from the room until –

Valencia begins clapping with gusto and yells, "That's my girl!"

Rebecca breaks into a teary, relieved smile as scattered applause starts like pitter-patter of rain on a window.

"You did great!" Paula shouts next, clapping heartily, the applause picking up steam.

Paula and Valencia both look to Heather.

"Yeah, what they said," Heather adds, as the rest of the room erupts into loud applause.

Rebecca sighs and gives a tiny bow to the crowd.

Nathaniel rises from his seat, wiping at his eyes and shaking his head like he cannot believe what just transpired. He walks to the stage, his gaze focused solely on her, and she meets him at the edge. _Your first standing ovation_, she remembers.

He reaches his arms up and takes her face in both his hands. "That was . . . that was amazing," he says, raising his voice over the din of the crowd, "I love you."

She places her hands on top of his and says, "I love you too. I'm sor –"

He tugs her face down and kisses her, soft and sweet. To her surprise, the audience explodes with more applause. Paula hollers _Wooo! _from behind them.

Nathaniel slides his hands down until they're behind her thighs, drawing her closer and she throws her arms around his shoulders and squeezes. Teetering at the edge of the stage, it only takes a gentle pull for her toes to leave the ground, but he's got her securely in his arms, catching her. With a tiny squeal from the back of her throat, she wraps her legs around his waist and surrenders to the moment.

She grins against his lips so wide she's barely able to keep kissing him. After quelling the urge so many times, clinging to him like a needy barnacle is unbelievably gratifying, lighting up every pleasure zone in her brain.

When the kissing starts to border on inappropriate, Nathaniel pulls away and nudges her nose, pressing his forehead against hers.

"Does this mean you're my girlfriend now?" His voice is thick with unshed tears, yet there's a lightness, a pure happiness underneath.

She laughs, full-bodied and free, momentarily throwing her head back. "Yes," she giggles, nodding, cupping his cheeks, "Yes."

He tucks his face into her neck, hugging her body tight to his, and whispers, "What did you say about butter commercials?"

The end

To listen to the song and see art of the final scene, please visit the chapter on AO3: /works/18455072/chapters/55154485


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